I decided to become a writer four years ago. One afternoon I sat down and started writing. It was going to be a short, little story about an RPG character of mine, Gemonae Dragondawn. But it grew, and I kept writing. I followed the story wherever it led. In other words, I started with a novel, with no writing experience whatsoever.
The book still isn’t out, but its close, and I have discovered so many lessons along the way.
Since that fateful day four years ago, I have written poems and short stories, essays and a sequel. I may not be an author yet but I am a writer, and I learn a little every day.
We all start with a different set of skills and interests. I had no creative writing education. A semester of English lit. Twenty-five years ago! But I’ve read a lot and have a vivid imagination. Presto! that’s all I needed. The trick is to stick with it. Reread and rewrite. When the inevitable questions arise delve into the plethora of blogs and youtube videos on creative writing. Ellen Brock and Kat O’keeffe (Kayytastic!!!) are two of my favourites.
Another tip that I like but I still haven’t done is join a writing group. I use my highly talented editor which works great but can be expensive for an aspiring author. You will always want to use an editor before you publish but the more work you can do before, the better!
The key is to write and give yourself time to do it. If you don’t have a novel in you, write short stories or poems. both are invaluable learning tools and very fulfilling.
When did you decide to become a writer?
Here is a poem that wasn’t loading from other sources for a friend.
THE POOL Marjorie L. C. Pickthall (1883 – 1922)
COME with me, follow me, swift as a moth,
Ere the wood-doves waken.
Lift the long leaves and look down, look down
Where the light is shaken,
Amber and brown,
On the woven ivory roots of the reed,
On a floating flower and a weft of weed
And a feather of froth.
Here in the night all wonders are,
Lapped in the lift of the ripple’s swing,
A silver shell and a shaken star,
And a white moth’s wing.
Here the young moon when the mists unclose
Swims like the bud of a golden rose.
I would live like an elf where the wild grapes cling,
I would chase the thrush
From the red rose-berries.
All the day long I would laugh and swing
With the black choke-cherries.
I would shake the bees from the milkweed blooms,
And cool, O cool,
Night after night I would leap in the pool,
And sleep with the fish in the roots of the rush.
Clear, O clear my dreams should be made
Of emerald light and amber shade,
Of silver shallows and golden glooms.
Sweet, O sweet my dreams should be
As the dark, sweet water enfolding me
Safe as a blind shell under the sea.
this is a taste of her poetry which is rife with fantasy and a love of nature.
I may be preaching to the choir
We are poets
We do not easily let dreams die
We cling to them with pen numb fingers
fading visions of fire fighters
and jet fighters and oceans full of man-o-wars
and great white sharks
or streaking arcs
of fire farther and farther
into the starry night
But the eagle has landed
We see further from up here
further, yet dream closer
of laughing shores at twilight
and dusty shelves
lined with books or
our photo smiling
black and white, introspective
on the back cover, our eyes still sparkling
with a secret
If one dream falls another calls
easy, fleeting, chasing
We loved and laughed
and piled up the little lies
Oh, when excitement burns
how time flies
too soon the world turned to stone
before my eyes
and in my ears the ringing
of your crystal cries
and a fire of sapphire
bled from our skies
for now it seems
even the strongest love
How long has it been since I heard an echo?
How long since I stood and shouted into a canyon, listening to my ghosts answer back?
When I was a child it seemed a common occurrence. Now it seems rare. Almost unimaginable.
The noise is everywhere. The people. The crowds.
So many chasing their ghosts they have chased them all away
Nature’s breath her brush
queen where tree is king
green totems in shadow
mist dances, a breathing thing
in the rainforest each drop
a tear of the Great Bear
Where the sky sweeps
with forest and sea
and mountains true her easel keeps
she who caught wind and light
and set them free