Last November I started writing a memoir about some not so pleasant experiences during my 20’s. (Honestly, I don’t know a single person who doesn’t have at least some not-so-pleasant experiences in their 20’s!) It was suppose to therapeutic and I suppose it was to an extent. I managed about 150 pages before I started really hating what I was writing. I didn’t enjoy living through these events the first time so why I thought it would be any better the second time around was beyond me.
So come January I started over and really thought about why I was writing at all. If I was just doing it for therapy, maybe I could do it for fun too. After all I read about a book a day since I’d stopped working to be with my kids. But what I was reading were vampire books, or demon books. I had started an imaginary love affair with Anita Blake and Sookie Stackhouse and especially Acheron and his Dark Hunters. This was what I loved so this is what I decided to write: a fantasy. An escape from the reality of my stay-at-home mom existence.
But truth be told, I hadn’t written anything in the lines of creative writing since my years at IU more than a decade ago. So I started practicing. I wrote a new first chapter every day practically, just to get some of the language right. But it really got my juices, like an athlete that hadn’t trained in years, it was like my writing muscles had a memory that just needed to be fine tuned once more. And soon a story that had been in my mind since I was a teenager started to resurface.
So I had an idea. Now I needed to set some goals for myself. (I am a very goal-oriented person) My first goal was to actually write a book. So the quest began.