There was a time when I was little that I used to cry to my mom and dad because I hadn’t mastered reading yet. I wanted to be able to read books dammit! I wanted to be able to WRITE books!
The first books I managed to write were typically about animals. Otter ninja babies born with the maddest of karate skills, anthropomorphic beatnik wolves with a love for flowers, and a gang of dogs staying in a hotel filled with monsters were some of my first stabs at writing. I guess there might be some merit to all those kids who called me “weird” in elementary school . . .
Things changed a lot over the years. As I got older, writing took on a form of therapy without me even realizing it until recently. Underlying themes in my books seemed to correlate with things I’d experienced or witnessed that struck a cord with me.
I’ve recently experienced some things in my life that hit me hard. The kind of hit you don’t bounce right back up from. The kind that changes the way you see things in life, how you see people, and most definitely how you see yourself at the end of each day. I can’t help but feel like it’s changed my writing style now, too. I see things differently so I suppose it only makes sense to write about these things differently now as well.
Tonight I’m starting the first draft to a book that feels even more like therapy than anything else I’ve ever written before. I normally am the sort of writer who obsesses and plans in a manic sort of way, thinking out every single possible detail of their story before they begin to write it. This time around I am just diving right in. I know some major plot points I am aiming for story-wise, but I guess I’m letting my characters take the wheel on this one for the most part. They’re a damaged and flawed lot, but each of them has their own tale to tell.
I’ve had issues before where I spend too much time planning and too little time writing because I want everything to be perfect. Nothing is ever perfect though, especially not first drafts. So, “not this time,” I say. This time I’m just listening to what those little voices in my head have to say . . . THE CHARACTERS’ LITTLE VOICES! Their little voices, not “those” sorts of little voices. Not yet anyway. . . . Give it a few late nights of writer’s block and maybe “those” little voices will join right on in, too!