I was 21, a younger, thinner, and more idealistic version of myself, when I started to write my first (and only) novel.
I remember the initial idea for my story coming to me after a nap. Sounds a bit strange, right? But it happened.
It was an afternoon nap, but one where I feel into a pretty deep sleep.
In my sleepy daze, I dreamt about a character called Strawberry (Straw, for short) who had four brothers. That was it. A spark of an idea, but nothing else.
I started writing with literally no plan whatsoever. I’d never written anything longer than a short story before. Novel writing was simply not on my agenda.
I had zero idea about character development, story structure, dialogue, or anything at all, but the idea was there, and so was the hunger, apparently.
I started writing…and writing…and writing. And the more I wrote about Straw, the more I had to say.
Little by little, word doc by word doc, her story grew. And I loved every single second of bringing it to life.
One night, after a random internet search, I landed on Jennifer Weiner’s advice for writers’. In it she details how to become a writer, a dot pointed list of things many writers have in common.
I read her first dot point: ‘The unhappy childhood.’ Yep, that was me. A resounding tick. Scrolled down and hit: ‘The miserable love life’ — another huge tick.
And suddenly my insatiable hunger for writing made sense. I was a writer not necessarily because I chose to be one. I was a writer because it chose me.
My life, and all the s**t I’d gone through, had turned me into an observer; an outsider, if you will. And what do observers do? Well, they write.
They notice the nuances, they reflect on what they see and how it makes them feel. They try to make sense of things. They feel deeply. And they write.
I remember seeing an interview with Judy Blume. She said that in order to find out who the writers of tomorrow will be, you just need to visit a children’s kindergarten.
Notice the shy kids, the quiet ones, the ones who don’t fit in. These kids, the keen observers — they will be the ones who end up writing books.
Of course, that’s not all it takes to become a writer. But add into the mix a generous sprinkle of heartbreak and a dash of longing, and there you have it: the perfect blend of angst to set you up for a life of writing.
Writing has been a constant for me, etched into my existence. And the craving to write has only intensified over time.
Sure, there have been periods of time where my writing has lapsed, but I’ve always returned to it, and it has always welcomed me back, arms wide open.
Because that’s the thing about being a writer. It just feels so damn good.
Picture an oversized corduroy armchair, a lamp casting a warm glow, a steaming mug of tea, and the rain pelting down outside — that’s the feeling I get when I write.
It’s a sense of complete and utter coziness, a world that can do no harm. It’s no wonder I keep coming back to it.
But it doesn’t matter how I got here. I’m just happy to be here, and I’ll continue to write, regardless of whether I have an audience or not.
This writer’s life chose me, not because I’m special, but because I need it. I need to write almost as much as I need to breathe. Writing is my oxygen.
I’m here for the ride, strapped in and ready, and I can’t wait to see where I go next.