I have always enjoyed writing and making up stories. In elementary school, I loved creative writing the most.
The first time I knew I really wanted to write, I had just finished reading a book – a YA novel about a girl and a horse. Something about the story connected with me on an emotional level. When I closed the book I had an immediate knowing. I want to do that.
I went to the closet, pulled out the Smoth-Corona and a stack of paper. I perched myself at the table behind the typewriter and started to type.
Except I had no idea what to write. I wanted to copy the feeling of what I’d just read, I just didn’t know how to make up that kind of story. I typed words, back-spaced, typed more, ripped the sheet out, started again.
It never occurred to ask a teacher or my parents how to go about writing a book. I didn’t know how to do it and sort of, dropped it- but that feeling never left me.
I’ve always written – papers, blogs, non-fiction – it wasn’t until a few years ago when I stumbled into an art space, found a writing group on the top floor and began to explore story/fiction writing.
Oh, how my heart sings when I open a new page and characters randomly appear and beg me to write their journey. I’m learning the craft, writing daily, and studying as I read.
I love it all. It may have taken me forty years to get here — but I’m glad I found my way.