I was always that person with a notebook and half a dozen pens, scribbling away in math class or even out on vacation. I was always working on something. My first novel -- a murderous cult horror story (involving the deaths of many people I knew at the time) -- was my longest project. I worked on the first draft for two years, the binder was full of scraps of paper and different colours of ink... I proudly refer to it as my first eyesore. And as I wrote new novels, new short stories and poems, the binder filled. And as life took over, the binder began to slip away. I remember finding it once, hidden in the mess of gym clothes and textbooks at the bottom of my best friends locker, but I lost it a second time, and that time I wasn't as lucky. Writing for me was my escape, the world I went into when life got too mean. Now where would I go? I didn't write for a number of years. Any project I started was something I did just to pass the time. Sooner or later I lost faith, and deleted the file (nolonger writing longhand at this point.)The characters always haunted me though, Morghann and Isadore, for example. Their's is a love story waiting to be told. But as I came into writing again, I came with new experiences and a new style. Last year I let myself indulge, writing short fiction throughout the summer (I even entered one contest which saw me published!) and when winter came I took the challenge for Nanowrimo (National Novel Writing Month). Ever since I've been working on Keys (the outcome of said challenge) and reaffirmed the belief that I have 85 000 word stories I want the world to read. Now, whether they read them? That's a fate yet to be decided.-A.C
Thanks AisleyI appreciate the post. I envy your devotion to writing fiction. I sometimes regret that I have to write for money, as I say it supports my habit of writing fiction.