"...And thus I've risen from the ashes... reborn again."

Someone asked me the other day what it was that inspired me to be a writer. This made me think, and I've finally narrowed down my reason.

First, I used to write about anything and everything in junior high and the beginning of high school. It was fascinating to watch the things I wrote take on a shape and life of their own. I was always creating some new world to escape into. Writing was like breathing back then; a necessity. The books I'd read colored these new thoughts to existence and helped create others. It was not altogether an unhappy time, despite it being junior high.

In high school, I was turned away from the idea of becoming the writer I wanted to be when I was told I couldn't write, and that no amount of college was going to write a story for me. Misunderstanding, I thought that they meant that I merely had no talent and that I never would have any. I gave up and, after much crying, threw myself into my next creative outlet; the arts.

Drama, dance, choir, and band filled my day from dawn to right before dinner time with all the extra curricular activities they offered outside of regular school hours. Song and dance my favorite, I joined the after school show choir, and dance club. My life seemed full. At least, my hours were accounted for.

After high school I knew that I was a weak singer and that my knees wouldn't let me dance much longer, so when I went to college I began my career to become a teacher. After a very short time I decided I didn't like teaching. I like playing.

It didn't matter my course after that as I found the one I was meant to be with and started a family together. My passions forgotten except in my dreams or the church choir, I settled into my life. It wasn't until my twenty eighth birthday that I even thought about writing seriously again.

A few months before October, my mother bought a few books to help me when I was unable to move about properly. I was going to be ill until after my birthday, and she, remembering my youthful fondness for the written word, bought me a few of the new releases in young adult fiction. Having read them herself, she knew they were excellent and that I may enjoy them as well. And being the wonderful mother she was, she kindly bought the whole series of each tale for me. I had gold in my hands.

Those listed in her selections were:

The Harry Potter series
The Fablehaven series
The Eragon series
The Percy Jackson series
The Twilight series
and
The World of Foo series

With enough written fantasy to last me weeks, I was soon flying to the worlds these precious authors opened for me with great delight. I rarely surfaced and when I did, it was only to cart the children to school and make meals for them after. Family night and church were the only other times I really saw them. Even when they requested snuggles and sat on my lap I regret to say that I read around them as I kissed their hair and hugged them back and rubbed their back affectionately. They stayed for near an hour or so before they grew bored and went to play dress up with their sibling in the other room.

When I put the last book down, I erred again as I became moody. My worlds had been snatched away with the last ominous word and I was plunged back into my own. My children and their smiles were the only thing that made me not weep outright. They really helped me see that not living in a fantasy world was not all that bad.

Subdued now, my husband suggested the funniest thing. Not knowing my past with the awful English teacher, he asked why I didn't create my own world to disappear into every once in a while. Then he shocked me further by magically producing a pretty laptop.

Silver, it reminded me of the colors I saw in my head during those precious hours of reading. "It's your birthday, thanksgiving and Christmas present," he beamed in his presentation. And indeed all I got for Christmas was a filled stocking and a package of colorful socks that year, but I didn't mind. I had already half a world created by then.

Not liking vampires very much, I held off on the Twilight series until last. That being said, it was still fresh in my mind when I started writing. I wanted another romance to bloom before my eyes. My character would be stronger though. She would be the damsel saving heroine... eventually.

My own klutz stumbled forward across the blank (pages) of my creation like a child with new life breathed into it. I flew beside it, encouraging her to take shape and then flight and then soar high above as I finished it.

I didn't stop there. My creation had to be perfect. I found a few English majors to help me hammer out the finer points and chop off the worse ones. Indeed I have another lined up, so that when I have ironed out the first suggestion to my taste (not all of which I chose to use as some were just plot suggestions) I will be able to present them with the newer, better version to be hacked up again. I actually like this part of the process, too. It is fun for me to watch my world change into sharper focus.

The part I don't like is the querying. The poor agents that I try to sell this to are getting very bad proposals as I have no idea how to sell the idea. I believe in it, but convincing someone else is harder than it sounds.

I am yet unpublished, but I feel that I am a writer. It is who I am, who i was, though for a long time I forgot, and it is who I will be in the future. Indeed at this present moment, I have three books I am writing. Each very different. One a women's romance, and the other two in different ages of young adult.

Whether they are elves again, toad dwelling demons, or creatures from another dimension, my characters are leaping off the pages and dancing around me in inspiration. I am their creator. I see them as if they were standing here beside me. I say I am a writer. But I am also a dreamer.

And thus I dream....

What sings to you? What would your driving life-force outside of your family be? Let me know I want to hear what speaks to you.

............