I never thought of myself as a writer.
In fact, I would go so far as to say that for much of my adult life I’ve hated writing. And there was always something that needed to be written: papers for school, copy for websites, and so on.
I just assumed that I must not be very good at writing. Otherwise, I’d enjoy it, right?
One fine day I had an idea for a novel. Actually, the idea had been nagging me for years. But remember, I wasn’t a writer!
So I tried to get my friend to write it for me. After all, she had studied writing. She enjoyed writing.
Soon it became apparent that she just wasn’t interested in writing my book for me. Looking back now, I think why should she have been?
While she enjoyed discussing the novel’s theme with me, the subject matter was my passion not hers.
So I bit the bullet and decided to write it myself.
And to my great surprise, I loved it! Writing was FUN! I loved everything about it. Yes, even editing.
Recently, my mother was cleaning out her closet. She came across a large bag packed with some of my old creative projects from the ages of 3 to about 8 years old.
Wouldn’t you know it? I was a prolific writer as a child! I wrote story after story – and even a few graphic novels. I may even “publish” some of them here.
I’ve come to realize that it wasn’t writing I hated, but rather being forced to write for work or school. Without that passion for what I was writing – without that creative spark – my heart just wasn’t in it.
It is now.