The first story that I remember writing, was a piece of Treasure Island fan fiction. I vividly remember the story coursing through me, although after nearly two decades, I haven't the foggiest idea of the plot.
I do know there were pirates. I also know that my classmates loved it. These were my first thrills as a story teller.
In 5th or 6th grade, I had a scary story published in the local paper, and again, I was just thrilled. I think it had something to do with druids and caves. Beyond that, it was probably terrible. It might be fun to track that story down though. I wonder how I would rework it as a 28 year old. If anything, it might be a spooky look into the mind of an 11 year old.
High school came and creative writing more or less came to a halt. High school English, in my experience was reserved for two tasks: 1) learning how to properly churn out a serviceable research paper. (4-5 pages, double spaced.) or 2) reading classic literature, that while often quite good, had the life sucked out of it by soulless teachers. (Mr. Carlisle, a positive exception.)
By the time I left those halls, the only stories I ever told, were the lies I created to amuse my friends. I shouldn't really call them lies, no one believed them, but people seemed interested in my silly tales of lunchroom monster slaying. Still, I told them with enough conviction, that I think they deserve lie status.
College came and sucked the life out of me, filling the void with arrogance, politics, ales, and liquor. The only time I wrote was when I was crabby, and it was only my silly little opinions. I could write well, on occasion, but it wasn't sustainable, and it brought me little joy. So I stopped.
I've spent the last couple years putting my mind back together in a way that I see fit. In that time, I remembered how I used to love telling stories. I never had the guts to stick with it. This blog is going to be my own little documentary of my struggle to do what I'm choosing to do, after I spent far too long doing things I dislike.
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