At 32 years of age, I can say without question that I have been a storyteller since the day I learned to speak. As a child I had a healthy and, at times, woefully overactive imagination. When this did not translate into an unreasonable fear of the dark, it found me spending my days viewing the world as it could have been rather than as it was.
A favored pastime was to play games of pretend with my elder brother, which served as an early outlet for the creative impulses growing in me. Being my elder, however, my brother eventually grew out of our games and turned to more mature pursuits, leaving me to fill the void. By this time I was still too young to appreciate the value of a good book, though I was constantly surrounded by them. As may seem apropos for the generation when storytelling through gaming was growing in popularity, I found my fix through the RPGs of my time. Final Fantasy, Xenogears, Chrono Trigger, Star Ocean and other early Playstation classics became my library, through which I could abandon the world around me for one more magnificent than my own mundane reality.
I would find, however, that the joy of losing myself in narrative was simply not enough. My imagination would not allow for the constrictive limitations of a set story that I could participate in, but not influence in any way. I developed a habit for imagining myself as a part of the world, and the larger story unfolding as I played. I walked, talked and fought alongside characters and developed elaborate reasons for why I was there and in what ways I impacted events. Though I look on the idea of self-insert fiction with a level of disdain as an adult, I acknowledge that those early fantasies were the seeds that eventually grew into a love of storytelling.
I lament that I did not read my first book until age 16, when I cracked open what I call my gateway drug into the world of literature. I'd had the book for years already, but never read it. As I mentioned, I was surrounded by books from an early age. My mother was a voracious reader and, before I ever knew how to read, I saw her books as unspeakably precious things. The hardcovers especially caught my eye; aged, blank covers with no pictures on their fronts or summaries on the back to tell you what was inside and the faded lettering on their spines gave them all an air of magic and mystery. Before reading any of them, I imagined them as being the kinds of priceless tomes found in ancient libraries or a wizard's study, the kinds of things containing secrets my young mind could not possibly comprehend.
True, they were nothing so dramatic, but what happened when I read my first book was still nothing short of magical.
God's Equal was the title, an obscure novel written by an obscure French author, but I was entranced by its story of hero worship, jealousy, its unintended consequences and the desire to atone for one's sins. It was the first book I could not put down, literally. I read it at home, on the bus, at school, even during class when my attention should have been elsewhere. And, yes, even in that captivating tale, my urge to tell my own story was there. The old trope about books taking you to other worlds became a truth as I imagined myself in 11th Century France, experiencing the story right alongside its characters and imagining myself playing a part as well.
I read anything I could get my hands on after that. Ironically, though I was never a fan of Dungeons and Dragons, it was the syndicated novels set in the Forgotten Realms spin-off setting that I devoured with the most voracity. They solidified fantasy as my genre of choice, and eventually lead to my attempting my first amateur stories on sites life fictionpress and fanfiction.net. Needless to say, they were awful, but I loved the process so much.
It always began with the same seed: an idea, any idea. A traveler with the ability to conjure fire, but a lack of control over it, indicated by numerous burn scars on the hands, arms and face. Why? Where did this ability come from? Why can't they control it? How does it fit into the world? A solider is hiking through the woods, followed by large, bison-like creature with a young girl sleeping in a kangaroo-like pouch on its back. Why? Who is the soldier and who is the girl? What is this animal traveling with them? Are they going somewhere or fleeing from something? These are just two examples of ideas that would strike me, capture my imagination and have me asking questions that eventually lead to worldbuilding and crafting a narrative around that original mental image that once had no context to it other than the thought of “This is interesting”.
By age 22 I decided I was going to write a book, and I've been working toward that end ever since amidst work and pursuing higher education. That is what brings me here. I have always been a shy creature; reserved, introverted, afraid of exposing myself. The idea of telling others my ideas, and the subsequent fear that others will find them unworthy, lead to my efforts remaining largely secret for years. To this day, I've only really divulged the plot of my stories to a handful of people and never on an online forum such as this. It's always filled me with a terrible anxiety to be on the block like that, waiting for the guillotine of criticism to fall.
Yet I find that I have to. To this day, my only source of input and constructive criticism has come from my best friend. A writer herself, she has been invaluable as a backboard to bounce ideas off of and an endless source of encouragement. However, I find that relying on a single opinion has become less helpful than I had once thought. My perspectives are skewed, I depend on one individual's preferences and opinions too much. I need outside input, and so I come to this community.
I am scared, but I believe it is time to face that fear. I hope that I will walk away from my experiences with you all a better writer, a better storyteller and a more learned individual.
I thank you all for indulging me. Now, let us begin.
A favored pastime was to play games of pretend with my elder brother, which served as an early outlet for the creative impulses growing in me. Being my elder, however, my brother eventually grew out of our games and turned to more mature pursuits, leaving me to fill the void. By this time I was still too young to appreciate the value of a good book, though I was constantly surrounded by them. As may seem apropos for the generation when storytelling through gaming was growing in popularity, I found my fix through the RPGs of my time. Final Fantasy, Xenogears, Chrono Trigger, Star Ocean and other early Playstation classics became my library, through which I could abandon the world around me for one more magnificent than my own mundane reality.
I would find, however, that the joy of losing myself in narrative was simply not enough. My imagination would not allow for the constrictive limitations of a set story that I could participate in, but not influence in any way. I developed a habit for imagining myself as a part of the world, and the larger story unfolding as I played. I walked, talked and fought alongside characters and developed elaborate reasons for why I was there and in what ways I impacted events. Though I look on the idea of self-insert fiction with a level of disdain as an adult, I acknowledge that those early fantasies were the seeds that eventually grew into a love of storytelling.
I lament that I did not read my first book until age 16, when I cracked open what I call my gateway drug into the world of literature. I'd had the book for years already, but never read it. As I mentioned, I was surrounded by books from an early age. My mother was a voracious reader and, before I ever knew how to read, I saw her books as unspeakably precious things. The hardcovers especially caught my eye; aged, blank covers with no pictures on their fronts or summaries on the back to tell you what was inside and the faded lettering on their spines gave them all an air of magic and mystery. Before reading any of them, I imagined them as being the kinds of priceless tomes found in ancient libraries or a wizard's study, the kinds of things containing secrets my young mind could not possibly comprehend.
True, they were nothing so dramatic, but what happened when I read my first book was still nothing short of magical.
God's Equal was the title, an obscure novel written by an obscure French author, but I was entranced by its story of hero worship, jealousy, its unintended consequences and the desire to atone for one's sins. It was the first book I could not put down, literally. I read it at home, on the bus, at school, even during class when my attention should have been elsewhere. And, yes, even in that captivating tale, my urge to tell my own story was there. The old trope about books taking you to other worlds became a truth as I imagined myself in 11th Century France, experiencing the story right alongside its characters and imagining myself playing a part as well.
I read anything I could get my hands on after that. Ironically, though I was never a fan of Dungeons and Dragons, it was the syndicated novels set in the Forgotten Realms spin-off setting that I devoured with the most voracity. They solidified fantasy as my genre of choice, and eventually lead to my attempting my first amateur stories on sites life fictionpress and fanfiction.net. Needless to say, they were awful, but I loved the process so much.
It always began with the same seed: an idea, any idea. A traveler with the ability to conjure fire, but a lack of control over it, indicated by numerous burn scars on the hands, arms and face. Why? Where did this ability come from? Why can't they control it? How does it fit into the world? A solider is hiking through the woods, followed by large, bison-like creature with a young girl sleeping in a kangaroo-like pouch on its back. Why? Who is the soldier and who is the girl? What is this animal traveling with them? Are they going somewhere or fleeing from something? These are just two examples of ideas that would strike me, capture my imagination and have me asking questions that eventually lead to worldbuilding and crafting a narrative around that original mental image that once had no context to it other than the thought of “This is interesting”.
By age 22 I decided I was going to write a book, and I've been working toward that end ever since amidst work and pursuing higher education. That is what brings me here. I have always been a shy creature; reserved, introverted, afraid of exposing myself. The idea of telling others my ideas, and the subsequent fear that others will find them unworthy, lead to my efforts remaining largely secret for years. To this day, I've only really divulged the plot of my stories to a handful of people and never on an online forum such as this. It's always filled me with a terrible anxiety to be on the block like that, waiting for the guillotine of criticism to fall.
Yet I find that I have to. To this day, my only source of input and constructive criticism has come from my best friend. A writer herself, she has been invaluable as a backboard to bounce ideas off of and an endless source of encouragement. However, I find that relying on a single opinion has become less helpful than I had once thought. My perspectives are skewed, I depend on one individual's preferences and opinions too much. I need outside input, and so I come to this community.
I am scared, but I believe it is time to face that fear. I hope that I will walk away from my experiences with you all a better writer, a better storyteller and a more learned individual.
I thank you all for indulging me. Now, let us begin.
Best of luck to you!
