When I was eight years old, I decided that I wanted to write books. I loved reading,
and always wanted more whenever I finished one of my favourite books. So I
decided to write what I wanted to read. Through the years, I came up with more
novel ideas than I could ever write. I would just get into a new idea when a
better one would come along. I loved the excitement of a new story.
As I grew up, my writing improved, but I still never finished anything. In 2003, I
made a concentrated effort to stick to one story and got 11,000 words into a
novel for young teens. Everything was going wonderfully as I strove to meet my
goal of writing 1000 words per day. Until I realized that my story had no plot.
My characters were stuck—literally travelling on a road with no end. I put the
story on hold until I could figure out where it was going.
But as more and more time passed, I let fear creep in. Suddenly I discovered that I
was afraid to write. Afraid I couldn’t write, that I wasn’t good enough. For
six years, I hardly wrote anything. I would open my 11,000-word file, change a
few words around, but never move on. It came to a point where I rarely ever
thought about writing. Whenever anyone would ask what I was currently writing,
I would be ashamed to answer honestly, “Nothing.”
But after my second child was born, I reassessed how I wanted to spend my life. I
had been doing a little work as a freelance editor, which is where I redirected
my passion for the written word, but I decided that I wanted to try writing
Since then, I’ve been slowly—very slowly—dipping my toes into the writing pond again.
I don’t have a novel written yet, but I have one completely plotted from start
to finish, and my first article will be published early next year.