Some things in life are your choice, or your fault depending on the outcome. Some things are required, no matter how you deny them. Writing is that way for me. Stories and characters haunt me. At age ten, I won a young authors contest, which included a trip to Detroit for some type of conference that I can’t remember. After that, I had no ambitions to write anything more than a required term paper.
In college, I wrote a letter to the editor of the newspaper, and the editor asked if I considered writing opinion. I had plenty of opinions, even if short on facts. A few of those columns were not too bad. Some were pretty good.
Later I drafted a fairly awful full length novel, the mere completion being noteworthy only in that most people don’t actually finish a book. Despite all of my revisions, a publisher considering my work, but in the end I didn’t make that particular years cut from 15 down to the 10 books that they would publish.
Twenty odd years later, I find myself still a Jill of all trades, master of none. What is it that I really want to do? Write. So once again, I have completed a novel, which I consider my first, although it’s really the second. I am still in that ego wrenching stage between self-editing and beta readers. As Stephen King says, writers are so needy.
It is my intention to self-publish in the next few months.