Writing: A History

Writing assignments in school thrilled me. So did spelling, times table tests, art, and anything else when I could use my hands, a pen, and paper to make something appear that wasn't there before.

I remember terrible stories I wrote that contained owls, sharks, Where's Waldo-like figures lost in the woods, mermaids, knights, and teachers with secrets.

The real writing--actual pen-to-paper sentence-forming, resulting in a chunk of text resembling usable material--began at the end of junior high and carried through to high school. Friends just accepted that at lunch, I wrote. In my ugly green messenger bag, my notebook was always there. I went through a notebook a school year, finding stolen moments to jot song lyrics, bad poems, or just sparks of ideas.

When a cloud of heavy depression hit, I wrote a book in a month. I didn't sleep much, just wrote. It was bad. But I did it.

Last summer I wrote a book about a mother and daughter pairing, merfolk in Ireland, dealing with a deadly leviathan, a human-hating merman, and Catholic priest-like men who belong to an ancient order, with one command--destroy any and all magical creatures when found, including mermaids.

It was bad, too. Not as bad, though, and that's what's encouraging. It was sort of a training wheels novel, where I learned how not to do things.

I write every day. I write several times a day. I want to be published, and with the amount of work I put in-not just to getting words onto pages, but in improving my craft--I think it will happen, and soon.

I'll keep a tab on this blog where I can mention my WIPs (works-in-progress), making sure I note whether it's a BS (brainstorm), a FOI (fully-outlined idea), a FD (first draft), or an IR (in revisions).