The Truth About Me

You're just dying to know everything about me, aren't you? Well I'll be nice and withhold my entire life story because you really would be dying if I tried to bore you with it. Instead, here is the tragic story of my writing life (don't worry, it has a sequel).This started as a little summary for my About Me page, but it turned into a blog post (how did that happen?) So here's a little bit about me, whether you've met me or couldn't tell my face from a pineapple.

I would be leaving out the most important part of myself if I didn't mention my faith in Jesus Christ. Believe me when I say that area of my life is a work in progress. I'm no Mother Theresa.

The other part of my life which is really important to who I am is my love of writing, books, and music (those things compliment each other quite nicely, I think). I've wanted to be an author since I was three pineapples high (did I mention that I love pineapples?). I used to write, write, write all the time and loved it. Stories flowed from my mind like fresh squeezed pineapple juice from a glass pitcher. Writing was my retreat, my Hawaii for the mind. 

Then (PLOT TWIST!) as I progressed farther in school and had less time for leisure, writing became more of a chore. I still wanted to be an author, but suddenly doubt spread a sea of fog across the path I'd envisioned my life taking. I didn't feel creative anymore and I didn't feel like taking time out of my day to stare at a blank sheet of paper. My whole world shook as I considered the possibility that I might not be an author. I didn't feel like a real writer. Real writers obsess about their craft, writing on napkins and writing numerous novels before the age of nine, story ideas spilling out in excess. (They usually end up dying of tuberculosis or some such disease, but I digress). I looked around and saw the cold, hard reality of the world: there are millions of writers, there always will be, and they are all better than me. My dreams of getting published died because I had nothing to publish.

So I decided to write a novel. I found this great curriculum called One Year Adventure Novel which is pretty self-explanatory. You write a novel for school in one year. They even have a forum where I could chat with other writers my age. I figured this was it. If I could write this novel, I really would be an author. And I'd make tons of fellow writer friends on the way. Well, no. It took me the entire school year just to come up with a bit of a plot. No outline, no novel, no nothing. I spent the summer tied to the computer, frantically trying to write my required twelve chapters. It was like having constipation for three whole months. I had to force every bit of that novel out with unrelenting force, sweat beading on my reddening face. (Okay, I apologize for the image, but it's quite accurate.)

I finished the novel just in time for school to start up again. And, three months later, I haven't written any fiction since, except what is required by school. Recently I've been thinking very hard about my future as a writer. I might have prayed about it too. I don't remember. (Remember me saying I'm no Mother Theresa?)

My verdict? I'm not giving up yet. No way, José. I am determined to practice my craft and practice it often. Most of all, I'm going to let myself enjoy it. I'm not going to expect myself to be a great author right away. I'm not going to expect creativity to flow out of me easily all the time. But I will expect myself to keep at it even when I'm discouraged. Because I'm starting to realize what makes an author really an author. I think it's just a person who writes.