It wasn’t all about the writing for me. Not at first, anyway. The Blank Page was daunting, and I was (am) far too scatterbrained to link more than a few coherent sentences together. I thought I needed a muse or some other kind of inspiration.
Writers were these larger-than-life figures, how could I ever live up to that? Tolkien created an entire language for his books for chrissakes. How could I ever compete with that? I never even mastered basic French verb tenses.
Books on the other hand, well, books were exciting. They were entire worlds that you could hold in the palm of your hand. And, even more than that, they were magic. I mean, how else could someone who I never met so effortlessly put such vivid pictures into my head?
It was my grandfather who bought me the first books I’d ever owned. He was insistent that I read the classics. A Tale of Two Cities, Great Expectations, Robinson Crusoe. Whenever I’d finish one, I’d get the next. It was nice. Most importantly, it got me reading at a very young age, which is something that I’m grateful for.
But somewhere along the lines, a switch flipped. I started thinking: I could do this too. I mean, above and beyond the first couple of attempts. I used to watch cartoons and then write my own stories. They were no more than a page (the rest is just filler, right?) and maybe a little plagiarized (I admit to nothing!).
I wish I could say that there was a light bulb moment. That would be so poetic, wouldn’t it? Then I could tell the story about how I was brushing my teeth in the morning and BAM, writer. But it doesn’t work that way. It’s having a story inside and knowing that I had to get it out.
It’s been an exciting journey, and there’s a tough road ahead, but more than ever I’m excited about it. I’ve written two books. Two books! First one hits in 2019.
It’s going to be one helluva year.