Writing Pt. 1

Writing.

Where to begin?

The beginning, I guess.

I was always a creative kid, drawing pictures and living in my imagination. I was perfectly content playing make-believe in the backyard by myself. I didn’t really need friends. I had friends - I wasn’t a loser - but I didn’t need them to have fun.

Now, as an adult, I still don’t need anyone. I’m happy in my own company, making myself laugh, taking myself out on adventures regularly.

But I still need someone to talk to…

We all do.

Growing up, my household was a little…unstable. No disrespect to my parents, but I didn’t have anywhere for all these big emotions to go. It seemed like everything was always about my siblings, and my parents - though they didn’t mean to - pushed me to the side because they knew they didn’t have to worry about me.

I felt lonely a lot.

Again, sorry Mom…

Rick Edwards was my teacher in sophomore year advanced English…or whatever the class was called. English was the only thing I was good at in school besides gym and lunch. I killed it at lunch.

Mr. Edwards opened my eyes to too many amazing poets to name, but Poe is still one of my favorites. I was such a rebellious badass I didn’t want anyone to know how much I was loving that class. We had to write our own poems, and I just couldn’t stop. I was instantly good at it, and I didn’t feel like I was good at many things.

I kept writing in my free time, starting with the most generic poems, then teen angst that rhymed, then broadening into pieces left open for interpretation. Not long after sophomore year, I started writing short stories, using my imagination to come up with the most generic bullshit ever.

Song lyrics came soon after, even though I was a horrible musician. The amount of times people came over, saw my guitars, and demanded I play something because they assumed I was good…too many to count.

“No, really, I’m not good.”
“Nah, I bet you’re amazing. You’re just being modest! Go on then!”

strums awkwardly

“Oh…”

“Yeah.”

I fucking told you I’m not good. Now look at you, all disappointed and uncomfortable.

My journal became someone to talk to when I felt I couldn’t share my emotions with anyone. I was too prideful, too angry, and too ashamed to admit that my parents’ divorce fucked me up.

All of those emotions had to go somewhere, and they landed themselves inside the pages of several journals.

Mom, you should probably stop reading here…

When I was in my twenties, I didn’t want to keep living. I told myself I needed to accomplish something - anything - before checking out. I had several stories in different phases of development, and suddenly it became super important to finish something.

I told myself I would publish a book, and if I still felt the same way after that…well, I’d decide then if I wanted to keep living.

The thing is, I was just writing poems, songs, short stories, and jokes. I didn’t know the first thing about writing an actual book.

I just went for it.

It was called The King’s War. It was about the fall of the Persian Empire. Why? Honestly, I don’t remember.

For weeks, I locked myself in my room, ignoring all the partying going on around me, focusing on this book until I saw it all the way through. I was a man on a mission, and I wasn’t going to let anything get in my way.

But then my laptop was stolen, and I didn’t have it backed up anywhere.

I worked on that bad boy for a year straight and was almost halfway finished with the first draft. I was devastated… but it was also really funny in a dark kind of way. The story was terrible anyway, but I was mostly pissed off that I lost all of my notes.

That was a hard lesson: always back up your work.

Anyway.

I went through some old journals and found a dream I’d written down a long, long time ago. For some unknown reason, I kept going back to it, thinking, “There’s something here. This is a story, and a good one at that.”

Soulless became my next project, and I ended up working on it for seven years.

I was scared to finish it, so I just kept going. The final page count was somewhere close to 1,000.

Sometime later I changed the name, which I’ll reveal another time.

I had that book professionally edited - God bless her soul. I wasn’t ready to be an author. It didn’t matter how long it took me to write it; I never put in the work to understand basic story structure and fundamentals. The tone, pacing, everything, was all over the place. Plot holes and inconsistencies everywhere. Grammatically atrocious. She deserved much more than what I paid her.

That book became my reason to keep going. “I can’t kill myself. I need to finish writing this book.”

That’s how important it was to me…

I rewrote the entire thing over ten times, and it still isn’t something I’m proud of. It’s so dark…

The best part about that period of my life is that it’s over. That book was the only thing keeping me going.

I met my ex-wife shortly after finishing it. Suddenly, I wasn’t so depressed and angry anymore.

Lord knows how much I loved her. Immediately. Right away. She softened me, made me feel human, and gave me a sense of peace.

I couldn’t work on that book anymore. Like all of my other books, it’s a first-person narrative, and it’s so fucking DARK.

And I wasn’t in that headspace anymore… I was actually happy. Going back to work on that book made me extremely uncomfortable, like I was being transported back in time to when I wrote it.

So, I sat on it for ten or so years.

Until now.

For years, it’s been gnawing at the back of my mind, begging me to come out and play, and I think I’m finally ready.

This book will find its audience. Like everything else I write, it’s not for everyone.

But here’s the thing…I’m a much better writer now than when I first wrote it. I’m starting from scratch completely, using that massive 1,000-page manuscript as inspiration.

It’s already light years better than the original - and I’m not even finished with the first draft. Also, I decided to make it a series. I could write it as a massive novel, I just don’t want to.

Yes, that book took me several years to complete. But it’s not the best I can do. This is a turning point for me. Regardless of how much effort I sank into it, if it’s not good enough, it’s gotta go. Start over, and create something I’m actually proud of.

Anyway. I can keep going, but I’ll stop here.