Today, or at least this month, marks an entire year I started to write seriously.
One year of looking at screens and seeing my story come to life.
One year of playlists.
One year of bacon crumbles.
One full year since Gale Darn became Gale Darn.
One year of hopelessly wanting to meet characters.
One year. 75k worth of words total.
In all honesty, it all started way before last year.
I think I first got into writing by peeking over my sister’s shoulder. I dunno if I was five or six, but I do remember hearing the worst shriek ever heard in real life, and that I was promptly booted out and placed in the hall for an indefinite period of time.
It mighta been an hour later, but eventually I got invited back in and was allowed to take a sneak peak at my sister’s WIP.
If you’re reading this, Ate, thank you for putting up with me. It means a lot. 🙂
Like a lot a lot. ❤
Anyway, that was my first introduction to the wonderful world of writing: characters, theme, bad guys who were really just overgrown kids, laughing over dialogue, it was awesome. And now that I look back, I’m surprised my sister even let me know her WIP existed. Huh. I mean, I wouldn’t have told my five year old self I had a WIP. But anyway, the whole idea fascinated me for a couple weeks.
Aaaand I forgot about it.
Fast forward a few years later, and I was 7, puzzling over my first poem. Which was a terrible epic about a Loyalist in the Revolution whose greatest secret was a wig. Yes, no kidding.
My first plot bunny was a crazy tale of a girl who was forced out of her home and roamed the streets of 1950 New York. Again, no kidding. 😛 That particular story begins with a flashback. How entirely original.
All that to say, stories have been in me for a while. I guess now I just decided not to bottle it up anymore.
Or rather, a year ago.
How was it a year?
I’m gonna be honest (which I try to be, for the most part, sometimes painfully so) sometimes I look back and groan. I’ve been writing for a year and I haven’t finished a single draft? I haven’t edited a single complete book? I didn’t even submit any of my stories to anything?
I thought I was a writer.
And while some of that doubt is thanks to nosy people that are also known as family and friends, a good deal of that is thanks to myself.
Publishing would mean the world to me.
And I’m nowhere near that.
Maybe I’m not cut out for this kinda thing. Maybe I should stick to my comfortable old self, the one that daydreamed her stories instead of writing so others could see them too. Maybe I should just let it go. Leave the doc open, but never read through it.
Because if I’m a writer, why on earth am I not writing anything worth writing?
Thing is… publishing is not why I started writing.
Writing is why I started writing. XD I write because I love to write, because I love putting words on paper.. on or a screen. Whichever I get my hands on first. 😛
So I think I’m done mentally beating myself up over not being a published author of a great series of novels yet. I’ve only been writing for like a year and 6 more years. XD Writing shouldn’t feel like a chore, but something fun, new, something completely the opposite of school. Unless you like school. Then it’s very similar.
But yeah. Here’s to one year, and hopefully more coherent posts to come. 😀
*coughcough* um, at the same time, I’ve been working on a project that’s been under wraps for a while. 🙂
Life is a highway,