I am a writer.
I don’t think there was one day that I just woke up and said to myself: ‘I am gonna become a writer.’
I mean, sure, in a way, I did, but that is when I decided to become an author. Now, that is a whole different tale and I am still only at the beginning of that. So perhaps, somewhere in the future, I can tell you the story of how I became an author.
But right now, am still just a writer. So, how did I become a writer?
I think I have been telling stories for as long as I can remember. And I think, at one point, we all were.
My parents played a huge role here, I think. They would read me bedtime stories and we had stacks and stacks of books laying all around the house from since I was a little kid. Since I grew up without a tv, reading would become my outlet.
In my early childhood, I would play with my stuffed animals and make up characters for them. I let them dance, cry, sing, quarrel, and anything little me could make up at the time. I even carried around a stuffed bambi everywhere I went. Bambi talked in an oddly high voice, especially for a boy, and we went on adventures together.
But later, when I figured out how to hold a pencil and draw words, I started making comics. It was mostly stickmen with potato bellies. I will even show you a couple of the drawings down bellow.
As you can see, not a talent. But clearly, an interest and a passion. I have dozens of little comics stored in boxes at my parents house, gathering dust. I never thought I would use them in later life. Hooray to my mum for keeping them.
Later in time, I would discover the library. I would go there, as a little kid, stow up to seven books in my backpack and wobble out with a load too heavy to carry. But I did it anyway.
I would race home, as fast as I could on my bicycle, which was crappy, and dive straight into my new books, reading them all that very same day and then impatiently wait until I could go to the library again.
A huge little bookworm, I was. That lasted until high school.
In my first year, there too, I would go the little library they had, lend all the books I could and read them during the breaks and at home. I wasn’t a cool kid. Not even close.
I was still enjoying the worlds inside the books and I didn’t care what about around me. We also had writing assignments and that was perhaps, the first time my talents ‘showed’.
I even got second place in a little, local writing contest that my teacher recommended me for. It could’ve been a start of something, but it wasn’t.
My teenage years came a-busting out and I spend the rest of high school pretending not to care about grades and spending time being a rebel. I didn’t write for a long time.
But the stories, now, they never stopped. They kept following me, wherever I went.
Waiting for the bus, or standing in line at the grocery store, sitting in the car or even while falling asleep in my bed. I made up vivid stories in my head, often even continuing them over days.
That might sound a bit crazy though. But it was all harmless. Mostly.
I made up people, situations, conversations, … Whatever there is to imagine. And all the characters I made and the stories and the lives they lived, they were just crowding my head. There were so many words stuck in my brain, and I needed to find a way to get them out.
There was one character that had stuck around for a long time. And that was Cara. She was already made up in my head, just waiting for the right time to come out.
And that is when, one day, all out of the blue, I decided to start writing down the love pill, with Cara and another girl, that resembled me.
Surprisingly, it went pretty easy. They just came to life whenever my fingers hit the keyboard. I wasn’t even sure where exactly all the things I wrote, came from.
In the beginning, it took some thinking. I needed to remind myself who and how the characters were. But since I had been forming Cara in my head for a long, long time, and I am talking, perhaps months or years, she quickly set her tone and writing for her became very easy.
Now, seeing as Lexi was based more off of me, it was a bit harder, to separate her from myself, but still, as I later figured out, she also had been roaming about in my head for longer than I thought.
So she also put her mark on my paper and before I knew it, they wrote the story themselves.
I wrote ‘ The love pill’ very quick, and it was my first, real story I wrote and actually managed to finish. It probably even shows.
And I think, around that time, the writer in me had awoken. I would go on to write a couple of short stories about other characters that I found in my head. I started a brand new story, that some of you might even know, called ‘ My own human’.
It is a spin on the classic vampire story, but with a twist. At least, I hope it is. I took on a much bigger challenge that time, not just writing about different characters, but simultaneously trying to create another world as well.
It made it much more difficult and there was a lot more planning and keeping notes and trying to keep my thoughts organised, especially because the book had a much higher page count and was/is written over a longer span of time.
But there I kinda went into the mist. My personal life demanded attention and I had a rough time. I am not gonna go in details here, maybe in another post.
To draw a sketch, I became a shell of myself. I was very emotionless and I stopped caring about almost everything. My grades suffered, my friendships suffered, and I suffered. It wasn’t a pretty time and when I look back at it, I was pretty miserable.
But even then, I didn’t stop writing. I stopped telling fictional stories for a while, but I started writing down poems.
Now, I am not gonna say my poems are good, but they helped me in putting down some of my feelings.
I think it helped me distance myself and it felt less confrontational than actually writing down what I felt. I masked my feelings by pretty words and beautiful sentences.
Luckily enough, I got out of my slum. And now, it seems easy to say that so casually, but it took me a lot of time and a lot of work. It seemed impossible back then. So I don’t want to give anyone the wrong idea that it was easy to climb back up from rock bottom. It sure as hell wasn’t. But I got out.
I will tell you this, I didn’t get out on my own. I had a helping hand that didn’t leave me any other choice. She pulled me out of the deep and dark pit I had been in for months.
And I wrote more poems. And more chapters for my book. I wrote her little tales and stories.
She encouraged me to write more, to try harder and she just fed the fire inside of me. And sure, I wanted to woo her with my stories, but also, it gave me pleasure to create something.
Blank pages turned in front of my very own eyes in tales. People that don’t exist, sprouted to life from the tips of my own fingers. Stories that had never been told before, left my mouth.
And that excitement, that feeling of accomplishment, it filled me. It was my biggest hobby and although I thought about making it into a living, I never did.
Life was in the way. It was too much work and I had a lot of different things going on at the time. Trying to study, trying to find work, trying to find out who I was, who my friends were. Putting time into my family, keeping my house organised, doing groceries, …
The start of my second book coincided with the start of an adult life and trying to become independent. That was the time I left the nest, so there was time for writing, but it never became clear how I could make it into more.
But after struggling and trying out new and different things, I had to conclude that the one constant thing I loved to do, was writing and reading.
And being a writer became something I could identify with. It became part of my identity and I was okay with that.
I still make stories up, wherever I go. And I don’t think I will ever stop.
Some people are good at languages, crafting, music, sports, organising, planning, cleaning, science, math, and all the other things in the world. But I found out, I was good at creating stories.
My imagination is my most valuable possession, my words are my most powerful weapons and a blank page is the only canvas I need.
Because, like many of you, I am a writer.