On Monday, February 13th, you should post your own origin story.Â Tell us all where your writing dreams began.Â It all started somewhere and we want you to tell us your own, unique, beginnings. Â Â
I really like the concept behind this BlogFest.
Everyone has a different story, and mine always makes me smile.
I grew up with my mother reading me Enid Blyton, andÂ marvelingÂ at the worlds she created within my own. I believe this would now be referred to as contemporary MG 😉 But it didn’t take me long to start reading on my own after I started school and I devoured pretty much every book I could get my hands on.
Then I started writing, because no book I read drew pictures in my head that were a match for my imagination.
Now, I should probably note here, that I had recurring nigthmares as a child. In one of them I woke up just before the car I was locked into rolled down a hill and jetisoned into a wide river. In one of the others I woke up every time my father turned into a monster after checking for intruders.
And when I was about eight, I had a real story idea. Having just learned the meaning of the word Deluge, I wanted to use it. So I did. This piece was titled Ghostly Deluge and it took up about sixteen handwritten A4 pages. (Even now wanting to call a story something usually gives me plotbunnies, but I digress).
We were always encouraged to show our teachers things we created, and so I was more than excited to show her my story.
Because who doesn’t love ghost stories? About ghosts in the attic because one of the twins fell down the attic stairs a hundred years ago and died due to a broken neck? How the new owners forbade their twin daughter from going up there, and locked the door. And then, how the girls saw the door open when their parents were late home on a stormy evening, and walked up the stairs.
But this time both of them died.
I was so proud to get the story out of my head. But my teacher didn’t react that way. She got worried.
The thing is, my mother is artistic. She can write, she can draw, she can sing. I can’t draw to save my life, but I can write and sing. My mother, from as early as I can remember told me other stories. Not ones written in books, but ones she came up with herself. Sometimes she’d use picture books and read versions of stories to me I didn’t realize were hers until many years later.
So my mother’s response to my teacher’s panic was to shrug and tell her not to worry. Her daughter would be a writer one day.
That was when I decided she was right. I would be a writer and I’d come up with the best stories about ghosts in attics ever. And even though I then went through my lawyer phase for about 15 years (long Perry Mason influenced story there for another time), I never forgot wanting to write. I never forgot I could write, and in certain ways, I never did stop writing.
Here I am – writing a lot and loving it.
I can’t imagine not being a writer. The voices in my head would drive me insane.
How about you?
Psst – don’t forget to pop over and check Rach Writers Beta Partner thing 😀