(It’s a little grainy…but it’s me)
When I was 11 years old I wrote my first book.
I honestly can’t even remember what it was about. Nor do I still have that first book. I wish I did. I’m sure it would provide plenty of entertainment on this side of things.
I do know that I poured my heart into that book (we’re talking a “book” that was 15 hand-written pages max). I was so proud of it. It felt like such an accomplishment.
It was written in pencil. On lined notebook paper. I’m pretty sure the main character was a girl. My age. My height. Like me. A girl who had dreams. A girl who wanted to go on grand adventures. And I’m pretty sure that girl loved to write, too.
So, that’s how I started writing. I might have kept a diary before then, but – if I did – I have no remembrance of it. I really have no remembrance of writing at all before my “book.”
I should have known then. What I was born to do. Write. Spill out my heart, my dreams, my ideas, my myriad of words onto an empty page. And not even worry if someone would ever read them. Or even want to.
When I was 11 years old, I wrote because I loved to write. Because I was born to write.
That’s how I want to write now. Not for an audience. Not worried whether someone will ever read the words I write. Or even want to.
I want to write just for the love of writing.
Question: How did you start writing?