There was never a time in my life I wasn’t making up mad tales and then eventually putting them to paper, where my love for the idea turned into a love for the words themselves and then the craft and then combination of all three. What would I be if I wasn’t a writer? I have no idea.
This house, specifically, called to my baser self for over a year. What does that have to do with writing? Everything.
I have learned languages, found lovers and love, failed and succeeded more times than I can count. And through all of that, through the ups and downs, the adventures, experiences, fears and joys, I have always, always been a writer.
I have a Faulkner quote hanging in the top right corner of my vision as I sit at my desk, and it’s come to be something I live my life by.
I either write vigorously, passionately, insanely – scribing pages in messy script every night before bed, in between tasks throughout the day, at breakfast and at lunch. I write down everything. Or I don’t write at all.
Most of my ‘real-world’ characters become amalgams of the people I know, faces and personalities, verbal ticks, cute quirks, a version of a real person that doesn’t exist in the real world.
Each book follows its own journey and that’s okay. As long as I still arrive at the final product, I’m pleased. That being said, there are still a few rituals I follow for all of my stories, no matter the genre, length or series.