I first attempted to write a story when I lost a very dear friend. Wanting to vent my frustrations, I turned inward and found that there were people in my head. These people or characters, went through a number of transformations before they had any shape, size, or personality. In fact, I started in a Yahoo group that I created, because everyone else was just too damn good to contend with. I admit, I do have a mean competitive streak threaded through my bones, but I'm a learner.
So that's what I did. I learned from everyone that came through, from the pathetically awful spellers, to the lame RPGers, but I found people that knew what they were doing. People fantastic in the erotic scene. People gifted in the skill of creative description. I learned, and pieced together what worked, and what didn't work. I wrote a short novel (novella, I've heard they are called) and admired how far I'd come.
In the summer of 2001, I joined a reclusive website for writers. I started to share the things I'd written, mostly poetry. Beautiful poetry erupts from a tragic heart I say. Unhappy people find words all too easily. I received feedback. I improved.
I wrote another novella, this one light years ahead of the first one. By this time I knew who my Muse was, although I almost didn't recognize him. He directed me through the third one. I knew I wanted to write. I was in love with the craft.
Now I stand and look back at all the progress I've made. I read little bits and pieces of ideas and theories I've surrendered into print. At times I feel very unworthy. Other times, I feel like a goddess.
I have a pad of paper that I use to 'dump' ideas out on. Each page is a potential story, just waiting to happen. The ideas are there. The urge and willpower is mature. I now must face my greatest enemy of all: Time.
To be continued.