What inspired me to start writing? What crazy, wild things happened to me as a child that made me want to embark on this crazy endeavor of writing? Were there any special people that helped kick it off? Are there any origin stories explaining the human being (for lack of a better term) that writes these words you’re reading?
Well… give me time. I’ll explain. But first of all, happy First Day of Summer!
I HAD A SECLUDED CHILDHOOD
It was secluded in a few ways. I have two older brothers. The one closest to me in age is eight years older than I. And I am between two sisters. So, by the time I was born, my brothers were off doing big-boy things and I was stuck home with the girls. Not to mention, I have lived in the same house out in the countryside since I was brought home from the hospital.
Thankfully, I had an operation at a very early age which some might say inhibited my mental capacity but what I say is that this operation was the turning over of a stone in my personality.
I had a childhood made up of imaginary friends, VHS camcorder recording, puppets, and stories. I loved stories. Still do. And writing was the one way I could afford to record my ideas and my stories and my characters in a way that allowed me to create more and more with my imagination. Having stored my ideas for some stories, I could move on to new ideas for new stories or for the same stories.
WRITING FREED ME
Writing freed me and my imagination from the captivity of my mind, despite the boundless parameters surrounding us. Writing was a world I could escape to after I was done with school and domestic obligations. It was where all my jokes were funny all the time and I didn’t have to worry about not saying something because someone else might not appreciate my presence.
Oddly enough, for some… my act of writing all the time came to be something to be loathed. Perhaps, the fact that I had found freedom and pure enjoyment in something at such a young age kind of got to some people.
And I admit that for a time, I was literally drunk on writing. After they found out I’d started another book in my pirate saga, my parents told me to stop writing after I finished it.
I called it ‘drunk on writing’ a moment ago. But I’m sure others considered obsession. An unhealthy obsession. And true, there is a point where it can be too much. But at the time, I was dealing with growing older, being someone who really didn’t have deep-level friends to share my feelings with, and coming more and more to loathe school all the more.
I’m not in that place anymore. But I am still a writer. And I am constantly drawn towards it. Sometimes, I’ll be stressing out about something or several things in life. Then the thought hits me… I should write.
WHAT AFFECTED ME?
And referring back to the very beginning of this post… were there any special people? I don’t think so. Everyone was special in forging the person I was that came to want to write. Every single bit of my existence I was remembering in some conscious or subconscious way that would affect myself as a writer in the years to come.
Everything I was experiencing would be in one way or another implemented into my writing and/or my writing life.
WHAT IS WRITING?
I once had over twenty unfinished stories going on my first personal user on our family computer. And somehow or another, while seeking approval of my writer-hood one day, the fact I had over twenty unfinished stories was nonsensical and rather foolish. I remember deleting most of those stories later on that day after deciding which one was the one I preferred to keep over all the rest.
I was young at the time and pliable. But now, I don’t think you’ll see me tossing a piece of writing just because I haven’t finished it. Because finishing stuff isn’t the ultimate point of writing.
Writing is a process. Reading what we write is a process. Writing more is a process. Realizing what we’ve written and how much we’ve written is a process. Every aspect is a process. For people that like to quantify things in order to understand them, writing is a horrible mess of a nightmare that won’t allow for clear and relaxing thought.
I don’t believe most people are easily quantifiable. Especially writers. Which I feel explains the unexplainable nature of myself.
These days, just being a writer is an inspiration to myself to write. I’ve been writing for fifteen years now. I’ve been writing for so long, the romantic dreams of writer-hood I’ll soon be able to afford. Like… a typewriter!
I’ve met adversity both from the inside and the outside, I’ve scribbled fun story ideas and compelling nonfiction ideas on scraps of paper and word processing documents, I’ve followed no inclinations of leaving writing behind to “get on” with my life and get a “real job,” and I’ve been working on a saga for almost ten years that has come to mean so much more now than it did when I started it.
I was born a writer. And though in the beginning it took years to be able to actually type and to channel my ideas into stories on a page and I’ve spent many times away from writing while needing it without realizing it, I realize that I don’t realize I need writing. I’ll always be a writer.