Why I’m a writer….

On this last day of quotes, I didn’t have to look hard for inspiration.  To my left in the writing/sewing grotto is a poster, and while I no longer participate in NaNoWriMo, the notion of fifty K in thirty days brought me to where I am today.  Thank goodness for Chris Baty: There’s a book in you that only you can write.

Ten years ago I had no idea this noveling journey was on the cusp of my horizon; I was living in Yorkshire, England, homeschool three teens, assuming my authorial dreams would merely dwell within my own head; hah!  My eldest twisted my arm only slightly to sign up for National Novel Writing Month, and by the end of November 2006, I had one hundred thousand words which later turned into my first novel.  Other issues swirled amid those words falling on paper; we made the decision to return to America, after over a decade spent in what is still my second home.  But while Britain lives within me via tea and a deeply rooted sense of history, the words began there through an unconsidered manner of writing; just do it.

That’s a quote for another day, because to just do it implies a task in need of completion.  That initial book was plotted out the month before NaNoWriMo began, but the notion of creating fiction had lingered for….  Oh my goodness, as long as I can remember!  So many story ideas were scribbled in notebooks; I like to say I have more plots than sense.  But how to release those lives, histories, drama?  The only manner is to simply write.  Don’t worry you might be telling a tale previously shared.  No one can tell your story in your manner but you.

Why is this notion so necessary?  Partly for all the ways someone else could unravel said yarn, nobody else possesses my experiences, which subtly and not so subtly enrich the story.  Like no two quilts are the same, neither are books, regardless of the subject.  And beyond the mere output of the tale told is the effect upon the storyteller.  My first novel is, ahem, not my strongest, but it ushered in more books, leading to where I sit today, with a behemoth that centers upon a most vital theme, that of trust.  Which takes me back in time ten years, believing that maybe I could crank out fifty thousand words in one month, because there was a book in me that only I could write.  Isn’t that a compelling reason to write that book you’ve always wanted to?  Nobody can do it but you!

Substitute book for whatever burning desire lays within your heart; life is short, no time to shove aside dreams that simply don’t go away.  I was forty when I started my fictional escapades, so age is no factor, well, not for words.  I won’t be training for a marathon, although maybe with The Hawk, I am, ha ha.  But it all began by embracing what is possible, not fretting over would it be good, might it be appreciated.  A new world is waiting to be explored; get writing and find your own yellow brick road.

Thanks to Laura Bruno Lilly for three quotes in three days.

2 thoughts on “Why I’m a writer….

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