For as long as I can think back, there has been a part of me that wanted to be a writer. I found myself writing prose throughout high school, filling up pages and pages on my Deviant Art account of sappy fiction. (with the most embarrassingly emo-teen angst screen name)
When it came time to choose a major for college, I decided against creative writing almost immediately, because I realized with time that I seemed to only produce good fiction when I was in a bad place in my life. Heart broken, especially. There’s a line in a song by the band Cursive that goes: “Fall in love to fail – to boost your CD sales. And that CD sells – yeah, what a hit. You’ve got to repeat it -you gotta’ sink to swim. If at first you don’t succeed you gotta recreate your misery cause we all know art is hard, young artists have gotta starve”
I never wanted that to be me. Wake up one day realizing how miserable your life is because it was the only way you could produce beautiful words. Life is too short for that! So I opted for Culinary/Restaurant management (Also note, life is too short to deal with drunk assholes all day as well. Moral of the story? don’t take career advice from me )
Writing has never really left my side though.. As you can all see I write on here multiple times a week, I write for OakleyPBC.com every week, I’ve even started freelancing a little on the side and from time to time I still write fiction into notebooks and on loose pieces of paper.
Several years ago… I’m talking, say…. 2008? Maybe 2009? I was struck with inspiration and in one day churned out 6 chapters of this little world I had come up with in my head. A lot of it touched close to home, but a lot of it was pure imagination. It was a wild feeling to sit in front of my computer and just press out pages of my own creativity. After that first night of writing, I kept going back to the story trying to add to it. Eventually, deciding to put it aside entirely. There is no use trying to force writing. A good story comes to you! You do not chase after it or else it will go down in flames. (In my experience, at least.)
When my brother died last February, I was reminded of the story by the only person in this world who even knew (and still to this day is the only one) I had ever begun to write a book. True to form I was able to start the writing process again and spent the last year slowly putting together the pieces of this whole world that give an ever so slight peek into my soul.
Last night, I typed the last words of the final chapter.
After 4 years, 27 chapters (plus an epilogue) and 147,749 words I have written a complete fiction novel.
I’m not entirely sure what I want to do with this book yet. I don’t know if I’ll try to get it published. Or if I’ll make copies for close families and friends to read. Or if I’ll just send the final product to the old friend who so appreciated the original chapters. All I know, is that I am a writer. I have been in a happy, good place in my life for months now and have still connected with my creative energy. There are days I really feel like I’m not a writer. I don’t typically get paid for what I do. Even the average blogger is making money these days. I’m not.. I don’t write here to sell a product, I don’t write here to make an extra buck. I write because it’s my passion, and Passion is Everything.