I'm going to try not to focus on the fact that other people may be reading this. I'm going to try not to worry too much about how much sense it will makes to other people, or how good it is, or how it might sound to someone else. I'm starting this blog for me, myself, to try and get back something I seem to have lost.
When I was a kid, I used to go with my mom to this old bookstore called The Dusty Bookworm. It was an aptly named establishment; a cramped, cluttered, dusty place crammed with shelves and boxes of used books. It was one of those places where you could bring your old books to donate or trade. My mom used to bring in her old paperbacks by the dozens. She is an avid reader of mysteries and thrillers of the serial killer sort, and I've always been secretly amused by the fact that she has read so many different books by different authors of the genre that she has trouble remembering which ones she has read before. She will sometimes come home with a book to start reading it, only to realize two chapters in that she had indeed read it before. Then it's back to the bookstore.
I loved going with her to the Dusty Bookworm, because I knew that if I did she would buy me a book. That was one thing she would never deny me. She encouraged me to love books as much as she did, and she provided me with a steady supply of reading material. Obviously it is to this that I can attribute my avid love of books, but it is to this that I also attribute my love of writing.
I wrote my first "novel" the summer after fourth grade. I took a pencil, a stack of loose leaf, wide ruled notebook paper, and my tape player out onto the back patio every day, and it was there that I wrote an eighty-something page plot-less story containing exactly eight characters, composed almost entirely of dialogue. Double spaced, of course. At the end of the summer, I went to my dad and asked if he wanted to read my novel. He chuckled and said, "Sure, sweetie," prepared to indulge his nine-year-old daughter. So I shocked him by dropping this manuscript of notebook paper into his lap. He still tells this story to his clients at cocktail parties. His daughter, the writer.
Since then, I have identified myself as a writer. I've written hundreds of pages of fiction over the years, but I've rarely finished anything I've started. The last novel-length story I finished was some time in middle school. Since then, I have written various pieces of fiction, taken classes on writing, and even earned my Baccalaureate in Creative Writing from an accredited four year university.
So why don't I feel like a writer? Because I haven't written anything original in almost two years, probably. I've written fan-related things. Many people call it fanfiction. One word. My fanfiction is mostly in the form of RP (role playing) with other people, though I have written a few fanworks independently. My fanfiction orbits around Blizzard's Warcraft universe. It's a verse that I enjoy immensely for its mythology and lore. The World of Warcraft is absolutely enormous in it's size and span. There is literally something in it for everyone.
But as much as I love it, the Warcraft universe is not my own. It's not mine. And no matter how at-home I might feel there, it's not my place, and nothing is as liberating or as comfortable as my own house. When you live in another person's house, you have to abide by their house rules. It's the same for me in the Warcraft verse. It is enjoyable to a degree, but ultimately stifling. And now, it has been so long since I have written anything outside the Warcraft verse that I'm afraid I've lost the ability to create my own stories comprised entirely of my own ideas. I know on some level that isn't true, but it's a fear that is constantly eating at my brain.
I want to get back to my house, but I don't know where it is. I can picture it in my head, I just don't know how to get there. I guess the only thing I can do is start writing, and hope that I will eventually navigate my way back to the back patio.