I became a storyteller at a very young age. Through my early childhood up until my tween years, I remember my siblings and me begging our Dad to tell us a story before bedtime. We would hang onto his every word as he made us laugh hysterically at one story and dive in fear under the covers at the next. It was magic.
As time passed I began to imitate him, and I distinctly remember countless nights of lying in the dark next to my sister, spinning bedtime yarns. It quickly became somewhat of a competition with myself to come up with better and better tales. I started writing them down during the day and then reading them to my sister at night. I had her give me constructive criticism and then I wrote a better story for the next night. I had very vivid, imaginative dreams all my life until the past 3 years, and those often served as great inspiration.
This love of stories led me to a love of books. I was reading at a 12th-grade level before I was ten years old, devouring every book I could get my hands on. The year I turned seventeen, I read 277 books, just shy of my 300 book goal. So close. I was addicted. Books were a magical gateway to infinitely many other universes, and I wanted to visit all of them.
Writing held the same allure. My friends and I formed a little writing group online where we wrote joint stories and posted originals for feedback. It was wonderful. For us, writing wasn't so much making up a story as it was finding the words to convey a tale that already existed. I just ran around wildly chasing my characters and hoping they didn't blow up the plot-line.
This love affair with books and words still has me in its grasp. I don't get to spend as much time on either as I would like, thanks to adult responsibilities and the unforgiving constraints of time. I used to write daily, spending hours pouring words onto the page, and a day never passed without me burying my nose in a book. A real book; something I could wrap my hands around and put a bookmark in.
Which is exactly why I started writing again. I miss flexing my creative muscle. I miss the vivid dreams I used to have. I almost never dream anymore, and I know it's because I haven't been fueling my creative fire with words. I don't want to lose that capability, and I don't want to become so rusty with my words that I can't unlock that magical world anymore.
And so I write for Odyssey, week after week, at times forcing myself when I feel I have nothing to say and the little author imp in my head is tired and grouchy. It's been a great help so far, and I'm starting to see shiny little plot bunnies hopping around again, inviting me to write some fiction. I have a few plots jotted down and I'm waiting to play with them until a time when I don't have any impending deadlines to stress about.
Written word gives me a sense of purpose and self, and writing is as much a part of me as my physical body is. I wouldn't be me without it.
So I write.
