How I Became a Writer
I Used to Say, “Someday, I Will Write a Book”
I am happy to say that I am now a writer. It took a number of years. I can remember when I was 18 years old and would say to people, “Someday, I am going to write a book.” This is the mantra of somebody who is happier being a wallflower. They have their schtick, and mine was that. It was like I was trying to convince myself if I said it often enough, it might finally happen.
It was after I got my last job in 1989 when I was 34 years old, that I gave myself a talk. I had many jobs up to that point. The only training I’d ever had for all of them had been that typing class I took in 9th grade.
The rest of my education was all the reading I’d done as a kid and up to that point in time, what I retained from my math classes, and the year I spent with college classes where I finally left in disgrace. What can I say? It was a party school and the first time I’d ever been away from home. I went nuts with it.
Anyway, the talk involved me saying to myself, “How many more years are you going to bore people by saying someday you are going to write a book? It’s getting embarrassing. You better do something about it, or you are going to be a secretary for the rest of your life.” Harsh, but that’s what I said.
I sat down, and without an idea in mind other than I wanted to write something that was swashbuckling, romantic, and suspenseful, I got busy. It took me three years to write “Secret of the Stones.” In the picture above, it is titled “Speak of Enchantment,” but I changed the name to “Secret of the Stones.” Somewhere in my house, there is a copy in a box, either in a closet or under the bed. The last time I saw it, the lid on the box had collapsed under the weight of whatever cats had deemed it a pretty good place to have a nap. There is another copy of it on a bookshelf in the bedroom. Double-spaced and about 75,000 words, it has a spiral binding on it courtesy of one of my nieces.
In the many years that have come and gone since that time, I doubt I have a digital copy anymore. At the time, we were using 8-inch floppy disks.
From writing that book, I learned what it was like for characters to come to life on paper. I learned what it was like to write myself into a corner and then, six months later, to find a way out.
I listened to Andreas Vollenweider and Wind Horse by Bill Douglas while I wrote it. I found that instrumental music is magic and helps me to stay inside my head, with my eyes closed as I write.
I learned what it feels like to get bored with the story about halfway through. I learned it was okay to write the ending and then go back to where I’d gotten bored and start writing again with renewed zeal. I learned how magical it was to finally get to the end I’d already written, which fit beautifully with how the story had proceeded, and to delete it, to rewrite it as a surprise that had tears streaming down my face as I fit the new finale to the story.
I learned what it was like to send it over the transom to publishers and to eventually get seven rejection letters.
The book sucked. But that’s okay. I wrote it. It’s mine. It will never be published, but I wrote it. It took me three years. And even though it is a sucky book, I’m proud of it.
Since then, I have self-published one book. I’ve got another six or so of them in various stages of completion.
My best advice? Challenge yourself. Sign up for NaNoWriMo for November (it’s free). Write lots here at Medium. Keep a journal. Stay healthy and never, ever give up.
The Links: NaNoWriMo — National Novel Writing Month Andreas Vollenweider — Caverna Magica Wind Horse by Bill Douglas