Today's the day when we're sharing our "how I got started with writing" stories as part of the Origins blogfest. For more details on what's involved, see the blogs of any of our
So far in my life, I've written...
Heathen short stories
Heathen rhyming poetry
Dramatic tales full of ellipses...
Fictional stories (no really, they weren't true) about my cats
(and yes, I meant "dork", but wrote "daulk")
Tragically overbloated epic fantasy (not finished)
Horribly 'emo' high school poetry
Raunchily illustrated poetry intended to be lyrics
(is still not lyrics)
Actual real lyrics (with music to match)!
(I lied in this primary school assignment, I'd never been to Tasmania - still haven't)
A nonsensical language that every linguist would roll their eyes at
(for the aforementioned epic fantasy mess)
Fantasy? Magic realism? The tree talked
Makeshift picture books
And novels that actually got finished
I've received a fair bit of critique, starting back here:
I was also quite open with my self-critique:
I've written by hand, by typewriter, by awful dot matrix printer, and by fancier (20th century. Gasp!) laser printers...
I've written by candle light and even by starlight.
I've written on planes and in coffee shops around the world. Mostly, I've written in my living room while trying out for the Couch Potato Olympics.
I've written songs the day after heartbreak (very cathartic!). I've written songs in tribute to friends' loves and losses.
I've written crappy poetry, and poetry I think is actually half decent.
I've written umm, I think 7 novels, and I have a few more not far off being finished.
I haven't had anything published except a poem in a University "street publication", but nor have I got around to trying yet.
I've written for myself, and for others. For friends and yes, for strangers, in the hopes that there'll be something entertaining, invigorating, inspiring in what I write.
I write to make people happy.
But mostly, I write to make myself happy.
I guess writing (and spelling, and English) has always been my thing:
Really, I'm just glad I didn't have to rely on my Maths grades for sustenance:
I can probably thank my parents - both their creative genes and the fact that they read to me as a baby/toddler/what have you - for how I turned out. They are, after all, my origins. My dad would argue that I was my own person from the get go - that he had nothing to do with how I turned out. But I just don't buy that. And I'm happy to give my parents credit where it's due. 'Cause I'm happy to be a writer, and a part of this great community with all of you!