I’d like to tell you my start as a fiction writer was glorious, that it flared into existence and shot into the stratosphere – but, it didn’t.
I got the writing bug in elementary school. It started as short stories for class, and then journals for English. By high school, I was writing journals filled with pages of adventure and mishap, romance and magic.
This is the moment I pause to call out the amazing English teachers I had – they had only encouragement and kind words. And, they actually read it all! Then, there were my friends. Poor sots. They’d stay up all hours on the phone with me as I read them my book. Yes… read them my book.
By this point, I thought I could write. Attempting a fairy tale remake, I shared it with a college professor who tore it up. Not a kind word to say, nothing but derogatory remarks and derision. I respected this man and took his negativity to heart.
I lost my way
. My book, an epic fantasy novel that I’d been writing for five years, stuttered and stalled. Life took over and I let it. What use was there in writing?