On Being a Writer

The question “when did you become a writer?” I have always found to be largely irrelevant as, for me, there was never a time when I wasn’t one.

Even as a child, before I knew how to write, I was telling stories. I had a large collection of dolls and soft toys. They all had names and personalities, and I couldn’t go to sleep at night without telling myself a story using one of my toys as the main character, after my parents had turned out the lights and tucked me in for the night. I can remember doing this at age 4 or 5; maybe even earlier, for all I know.

At school, I started writing stories in the back of exercise books, at any moment when I had any free time. If we were actually assigned writing a story as class work, well, I was in heaven.

So I can’t really work out when writing ceased to become fun. I don’t write for pleasure, I don’t write because I find it an enjoyable pastime, I write because, somehow, I’m driven to do it. It seems to be part of me, part of my reason for existence, and not doing it is as inconceivable as not breathing.

Sometimes it’s still fun, when I’m getting lost in the world of my characters and the words are flowing. But on the days when it becomes a struggle – when even doing the ironing seems more appealing than sitting down with my work progress, I long for those bygone days when things were simpler and writing was always a joy.

I never chose to be a writer. Writing chose me, and it’s a lifelong commitment, for better or worse.

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1 comment so far

  1. lachatnoir on

    You need to get the fun back ma cherie! 🙂


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