I’m a writer. Not an author (not yet anyway) but a writer nonetheless. It has taken me some time to come to terms with this fact, because (and anyone who knows me will back me up on this) writing is not something I had ever really aspired to. The main reason for this is that I sucked at English… like really sucked… in fact I hated the damn subject. It wasn’t because I hated books, I have always loved books and loved to read – I was one of those kids whose parents had to confiscate their torch to prevent them from reading all night – it was that I just didn’t like analysing the books. Or maybe to be more precise it was that I didn’t like having to agree with my teachers’ analysis of the books, I am and have always been a rather opinionated little soul. Anyway I am off topic.
I hated English and from the time I finished my creative writing paper for my Year 10 School Certificate exam until an especially unimportant day in June two years ago I didn’t write a single word of fiction. So why did I start writing, I hear you ask? The answer to that question is more than a little embarrassing…
Flash back to June two years ago and I have just finished reading the Twilight series for the third time (see I told you it was embarrassing) as I lower the final book to the coffee table I am struck by an epiphany… I can do what Stephenie Meyer has done. I mean, it’s not like the books are particularly well written, good characters, sure, and an interesting premise, but let’s face it in more than 1600 pages not much really happens. Stephenie Meyer wrote a book that has very little going for it other than an amazing male lead character that every female the world over is desperately in love with! I could do that.
Oh my God, how arrogant am I! So with my delusions of grandeur I come up with a rough plot and two days later the first words of my first novel are typed onto my laptop. But then the strangest thing happened I found that not only did I enjoy writing (in fact I flat out loved it) but it all came so easily – the words literally flowed out of my erratic brain and straight onto the page.
See the thing is (brace for more embarrassment) I talk myself, always have. I have pretend conversations in my head, all day, every day. The incredible thing is that this is exactly how I wrote my book – I talked to myself (often whilst vacuuming or ironing) then I wrote the bizarre and convoluted conversations down. Who would have thought that an attribute as deplorable as talking to oneself would actually come in useful?
So that, in a roundabout way, is the story of why I began to write… Hopefully it’s food for thought.
The Exasperated Novelist.