It’s a familiar story:
You ask an author how they started and they’ll tell you how they told stories from an early age. Or how they constantly wrote. Be it in textbooks, notebooks or the back of a napkin.
Basically, they’ll go on to say how writing has always been in their blood, and how of course they’d turn out to be a writer, what else?
It’s a familiar story… but it’s not mine.
I never regaled friends and family members with my stories. I hardly wrote anything outside of what school and then later life required of me. Sure, there was some god-awful poetry as I tried to be a songwriter, and there was the odd occasion where a story of mine would be read out in English Lit class…but other than that, nothing.
I started writing fiction around Christmas 2015. I can’t really say why exactly. What I can say is that I enjoy it more than anything else I’ve ever done. I can also say that despite my dismissal of any personal writing experience, I have always imagined conversations. Long conversations. Clever ones. Witty ones. Romantic ones. Heroic ones.
I have now found a place for them in my fiction.