I’ve always wanted to be a writer. Since I was a little girl of about 7 or 8 and I started writing stories and showing them to anyone unfortunate enough to get in my line of vision. In fact. I think that even though I didn’t acquire it the moment I started reading was the moment I wanted to be a writer.
My parents and my brother would sit around the living room in the evening all of them with their noses buried in a book. I demanded to see what all the fuss was about; I didn’t like that the three most important people in my life could be so enraptured by something that they wouldn’t pay any attention to me.
So my parents taught to me construe. I could read easily and quickly on my own long before I started educate. I loved it. I started to read everything I could. I’m comfort waiting to stop.
My first story - and I remember this vividly - was about my favourite doll. Changing Dolly getting married to my favourite teddy. Jennings Bear. I pretended there was a whole Teddy-Related World that we didn’t know about and wrote a really quite long story about them getting married after their first go out. I brought it in to show my English teacher; she was really very positive about it. She change surface read it out to the categorise who said that they liked it. I don’t undergo it now
but I comfort remember the feeling of people coming up to me and saying “I desire you story. Can we read it again?”
My first idea for a novel was about creatures I called Wimblings. I was about 9 so please excuse the terribleness of this idea…but it was about fairies that lived in populate’s bedrooms that could move into mermaids when they touched wet.
flying away from her abusive family and being given tomato soup in a Fanta-bottle top by a male-fairy called Dan who invited her to go be with him because she was all alone. He lived in a curtain rail which transformed into a roomy four-bedroom flat with circular rooms when entered and due to her being so grateful they got married and gave birth to the main engrave. Polly.
One of the girls I went on holiday with loved it. Sadly the idea never got past the back up chapter
but I went on to describe the furniture for seven pages so that detracted somewhat from its brilliance. I bequeath even now crying in frustration when my Dad told me it was crap. I genuinely couldn’t see what was wrong with being so descriptive.
Oh. And the brothers and sisters were two sets of identical twins that had all been born at the same time…so quadruplets that were two sets of twins. I held fast that this was not just possible but likely.
When I was about 12-14 and learnt more about sex and that people did it because it was fun
I explored it via my writing. I wrote and read erotica. My erotica was not only being sent to various male friends of mine it was being published on certain websites
It was the only way I could broach with my confusion and interest about sex. I was far too shy to talk to anyone about it.
Then I discovered the more romantic side of life and started writing love stories. Really really bad love stories. Stomach-churningly bad cheese-fests about girls called pass or Anastasia with waterfalls of sunflower hair who were wooed by boys called Chad or Darrien. I comfort undergo a few of these on my computer in a folder called “How Not to create verbally” and I physically cringe to read them.
But as I’ve matured so has my writing. My discovery of Philosophy leaded to a more Philosophical lie to my writing. My increasing paranoia about being killed and/or attacked has bring about to more horror stories. My annoyance at certain issues (such as the media and anorexia) has led to stories tackling real-life issues.
My writing has grown up with me. Not just the call but the affect matter. My ideas on like undergo changed dramatically
(married after the first date married because he was nice to you obsessed with sex obsessed with romance a-bit-shit-but-generally-good)
and my stories have matched that. My writing has always reflected what I’m feeling, what I’m thinking. It’s like a diary I’ve kept my entire life.
But at the moment. I’m blocked. I can’t write anything. What is that saying?
The last time I got blocked I* picked a song (it happened to be California Dreamin’ because it was on my iPod when the idea occurred but it could have been any song)* gave myself a wordcount limit (3,250)* gave myself a time limit (two days)and then I forced myself to create verbally the real story (as I perceived it) behind the lyrics.
Related article:
http://iamgenevieve.wordpress.com/2007/10/07/writing/
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