Fall down seven times, stand up eight. I think the above image (found through google in a jillion places) is a beautiful depiction of that sentiment. It’s also one of my favorite themes.
I don’t write in any specific genre. I write in the world that my story needs. Sometimes that’s a contemporary romance, sometimes it’s hard core fantasy, sometimes it’s a mixture of everything. The goal isn’t just to make a cool world that has its own people, culture, and references, but to make real emotions. The story should make us feel – which is why I need to write it.
They consume me. I didn’t want to be a writer. Nope, I had other plans for my life, and then I sat down one day and started typing. I’ve always loved the way it feels to have the keys click under my fingers. Seeing the words spill onto the page is almost magical. Reading the stories that I wished someone else would write? There just aren’t words for how that feels.
I remember wishing, as a child, that Anne McCaffrey would have a story about a dragon that wasn’t like the others. And then The White Dragon was released. I almost felt like that story was mine. I’d never contacted her. I didn’t say a word about it to anyone. It was just a thought in my head about a story that I thought should be told, and there she was telling it.
I think all books should be like that. Somewhere, in the massive world we live in, is a person wishing they could find the story that burns inside them – and when they can’t, they take that first leap.
Oh, I’ve read plenty. Looking back, I realize that I wrote more than I thought, but I wasn’t a writer. That wasn’t in me. I didn’t have the patience for something like that. And yet, over and over, I heard people say they wished they could write a book. They had a story. Everyone had a story… except me. But I was wrong.
It started on the worst day of my life. I couldn’t take it anymore and just wanted to escape reality for a bit. My options weren’t good. Broke, dejected, and desperate, I wanted my own personal hell to just leave me alone for a few hours, so I began typing. I could have made other choices, like drugs or suicide, but my computer was right there, and it was just easier. I typed, and forgot about everything, including my own misery.
A month later, my first book was done. I’d been shoved down, and learned to stand up in my own way – by living someone else’s life. That story led to another, and then another. Now, there are over 30 books on my hard drive begging to get that final touch that makes them good enough for the beta readers to review. And I have one available for the public.
As I’m writing this, more than 500 people have purchased or borrowed my book. It’s not much, but it hasn’t even been two weeks. That’s five HUNDRED people who are reading a story that started in MY head. Knowing I have influenced someone else’s life is a very strange feeling, but I think it’s a good one.
It means I’m an author, and I have the power to show people how to fall down and keep getting up. I make them see that strength isn’t about muscles or brains. It had nothing to do with gender or how we were born. All that matters is that we dare to dream, and keep on dreaming, because everyone’s story matters.