imagination equals wonderfullness & why do I write?

(Um, I apologise for the lack of photos in my post. I would put some in except Blogger is being annoying with them. Hopefully that gets cleared up soon.)

And here is the sorta, kinda introduction-like post about me as a writer. Be ye warned because it might not make a great deal of sense ...

When you introduce yourself as a writer two questions normally follow: What do you write? Why do you write? I get why people would ask this and it's true that they're important. They're important not only as information for the questioner, but also for yourself as a writer. I think it's because they help to define and describe you. (Not to say you can't change as a writer because, wow, I change a lot.) They give clarity, and clarity, people, is something I crave.

Very simply, here it is: I write contemporary and historical fiction for young adult and middle grade readers. None of my manuscripts are complete to a point where I'm the happiest with them, but I love them all anyway (although they can be infuriating, just saying). And I write because ... because why? Is it enough to say: Because I love it? Because once I discovered this magic I didn't want to go back? Because once I realised maybe my stories could go further than the hard drive of  my computer I couldn't go back?

I like how Victor Hugo put it: A writer is a world trapped inside a person. That's almost a perfect description, you know. Except I don't want my world to stay trapped. Like Natalie Goldberg said: Write down who you were, who you are, and what you want to remember.

Lily's Omi (German for grandma) was the first story I remember writing. And by writing I mean dictating to a kind aunt and big sister who wrote my words in pink felt pens on the pages of an A3 scrapbook that I ruined with my horrible illustrations beforehand. (I have never and will probably never be an extraordinary free hand artist, okay?) The story had no definite end and involved a lot of things. Mainly: a group of randomly associated girls, a journey to the city, balloons, and thunderstorms. Nevertheless, a spark was lit and I was over the moon to actually read my words - my story - in ink on paper.
Ten or so years, quite a few ideas and drafts later, does it sound strange to say I never, really, truly lost that spark? Because, apart from the bad days when I convince myself I'm going nowhere, I haven't. I shamelessly admit I have always been hopelessly in love with stories, especially with my own stories. I am enthralled by my imagination and by the endless possibilities it opens.

But, still, there's a lot of things I have no idea about when it comes to writing. (Like, seriously, how do you make a story realistic but not boring or too long?) I don't exactly know why I'm the kind of human being who willingly sits at her computer and types a combination of twenty-six letters over and over and over again. But I love the fact that I am that way. I love the fact that there are other people in the world who are that way, too. I love the fact that there are still so many things to discover about the world.

And I don't ever want to lose my imagination.


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