As a kid, I went through a phase of obsessions. I now know that I was just doing that because I hadn’t found out that writing was my true obsession/passion.
My obsessions included pokemons, Diddle stickers, tamagotchi, sea monkeys, incense, herbs, candles (these three relate to my "magic" obsession), ancient and foreign coins, precious and semi-precious stones… These are just the obsessions I remember.
I’ve always loved inventing, be it a game, like the "Real Life Game" where my sister, friends and I pretended to be adults, had babies (baby born dolls), jobs and paid bills, or a story to fall asleep at night. I’ve created dozens of games that have left my friends, my sister and I with some very good memories. (Other games were the "Harry Potter Game", the "Anne Frank Game", the "Surviving Game" (several variations of that one), the "Selling stuff in a shop Game", etc.)
I was never bored. Neither was my mother, for an entirely different reason. (I hated cleaning up.)
I did try writing a story when I was 10, but I wrote it in French, and gave up very soon after starting it. (I’m bilingual.) Then, a year later, I started a few other stories, this time in English. I can remember three: one that was for school, and two that were for me. They were all crap. But I found one of them, reread it and thought to myself "Huh, I think I can see a bit of talent there."
Even then writing was a part of me, it just hadn’t quite emerged yet. Maybe because I was young, immature, childish and just enjoying life with my two best friends.
Another anecdote before I talk about how I truly started writing: I love talking and telling stories. (This much is obvious.) And I always have. But in this case, I mean always. As in from the age of two. Apparently, I used to tell my mother off for telling me off. Of course I wasn’t speaking real English, but man did I talk.
At school, I’m known for being the one who talks about her life. If I tripped over a stick in the yard, I tell my friends when I get to school. (Trust me, funnier than it sounds.) I tell them anything funny that happened to me. Anything.
Technically talking about my own life doesn’t count as stories, because I don’t lie, I don’t embellish (not really), but I make it interesting. I tell true stories.
Now let’s go back to the actual topic.
I was thirteen and a half when I discovered that writing was fantastic. I told one of my best friends that for Christmas I’d write her a fanfiction about Ron and Hermione, her favorite couple. It was actually a songfic. (Where it’s based on a song. The song was "Heaven when you kiss me". Don’t laugh.) I didn’t complete it in time for Christmas, but I did eventually complete it. But before I did, she told me about this new series she was reading.
She told me about this one scene, and I interpreted it my own way. This is how my first every "novel" started. I never completed it, but it got me into writing. Curious about what series it was? I’ll tell ya: Twilight. Yup. (I hate Twilight now, but that’s beside the point.)
The scene was this: Edward told Bella not to go see Jacob, but she does anyway. (My friend told me that the guy was dangerous.)
In my mind it became this: A girl tells her mother she’s going out with her friends when really she’s going to this guy’s house, and he’s dangerous. Very dangerous. He was a vampire, and, don’t laugh, but his past sometimes haunted him and he would become violent and then hit her. Seems very childish looking back on it…
That scene became the middle of my novel, and I started building around it. I gave up. No idea when, but I do know that my second novel was called "Surrendering" and that it also sucked. However, I finished that one. It was only 13 000 or so words in the end, but I had done it: I had written a novel. (Novella, really, but in my mind I’d written a novel.)
It was about a guy who breaks up with a girl who then on her walk back home thinks about the past, how they met and the such. Eventually she reaches a decision.
(Can you guess what she does?)
Yup, you might have guess it: she kills herself.
Being a new writer, I of course wrote a sequel, called "Living"; that one was never completed. A third one was planned, along with a fourth. (By the way, that one was non-magical.)
My next "novel" was "Selene Youngblood" of which I wrote 10 000 words. I still have it in my drawer, ready to be rewritten. I want to finish it one day because while rereading it a few weeks ago, I realized it has potential.
Between all those novels, I also wrote poems and short stories. And between "Selene" and now, I’ve started another dozen novels or so and only completed one other: "A Blanket Unwoven". That "novel" was 33 000 words, and also crap. But each and every word I’ve written has taught me something, so I don’t consider those words useless crap. They’re useful, but they’re still crap.
Before I started writing the novel I’m writing now, I was determined to finish "Her smile". (No, I didn’t finish it. Maybe one day…)
Anyway, here I am — 35+ poems, 3 or 4 songs, a dozen short stories, 2 completed "novels", 15+ half-written novels, over 120 000 words and 18 months later — and I’m extremely proud of what I’ve written.
And I’m only 15. I stillhave plenty of time to improve. I have a few mottos, and one of them is this: Do what you love. I refuse to do something I hate, which is why my teacher’s remark is "Kayleigh makes efforts, but doesn’t work on the subjects she doesn’t like." Those subjects include history, maths, physics, French… Basically, anything that isn’t English. (Well, I do make efforts in Spanish and Science.)
Now don’t get me wrong, I, strangely, kind of like maths, and I absolutely ADORE history, but what I truly hate is the way those subjects are taught. That’s the true problem.
Okay, now I’ve completely veered off the topic and it’s almost 1 a.m. I still need to shower, choose my outfit, make my school bag (i.e. find books) and, um… Ah, right: sleep.
Night to anyone else about to go to bed.