The Reason Why I Write

I think many writers are often asked about why they started writing. 

"What inspired you?" 

"When did you know that this was something that you wanted to do?"

But, like everything else in the world, there is never one answer. Each writer will tell you something different. Depending on the person, there are various reasons that they began writing. This is my reason.

If I go back to the stories I wrote in elementary school and with my friends, then it was because I was excited by stories. I wanted to tell and make up stories because I enjoyed the ones that I read and I wanted to invent the adventures that we would have together.

Years later, I remembered my fondness for writing and decided that I wanted to write a story that others would want to read. I wanted to share the stories in my head. So I began with a story about a girl and scuba diving.

Why this watery tale? I think it was because I had an interest in the ocean at the time. I wanted to do something realistic. The time period changed over the course of that story from an Edwardian period to modern day. I couldn't really decide what I wanted and where it was going. I was trying so hard to be a writer that I thought everyone would want (with a story that the public would like) that I forgot about the writing that I loved.

I abandoned ship on that project in 8th grade. That was when I started writing for myself with the intent of sharing it later. The stories that I loved to read had magic and magical creatures, so I started there. Angels, demons, vampires, they would all be present in my story. Not only that, they would be the main figures with the greatest population in my world. They would become the "humans" of my story. Several times I thought about actual humans featuring in the story, but that seemed to follow everyone else's pattern. Besides, I was tired of humans and most of all, I wanted every character to have magic. To complete the idea, I added a fourth group: merpeople.

My four characters came to life and perhaps you know them, Angelica, Monica, Grant, and Adam. This story would show each of their lives. They would be young. Around my age and a little older than I was (at the time), and they would be everything I dreamed of.



In my late middle school - early high school years, I was bored and disappointed with the world around me. I'd grown up reading Harry Potter and Percy Jackson. I wanted to be a wizard, half blood, dragon, witch, etc...

The problem was that everything I wanted to be was magical. Everything had a supernatural element that I lacked. While I waited for a letter to arrive, looked for monsters and tried to train myself to fight; I couldn't let the idea go that if I was lucky enough, something would happen.

The realities of growing older make you put away your imagination. No longer do rainbows lead to pots of gold. Fairies aren't hiding in the flowers and the tooth fairy doesn't come to your pillow. Ghosts don't haunt the attic and you can't summon the spirits of those departed. Bunnies aren't leaving eggs and if a large man in red comes down the chimney, he's probably a burglar.

To keep those realities from sinking in, I began to draw away from the world. If I couldn't have magic or couldn't find it where I was, then I decided to create my own world where magic was present all the time. In my own world, it was always there and everyone had it. No one had to do without.

The story began to take shape and I was writing all the time. I brought this large journal with me everywhere and a trusty pen. While I'd written in pencil to begin with, the lasting ink of pens seemed a more permanent way to keep my ideas intact. The story grew and it was somewhere around the 100th page of handwritten scribbles that I thought about publication. Was it possible? I wondered. Could I really make a book?

I was still far off at that point, but the idea grew inside me. Within the next few months, I began to type every written word and create the first draft of Island Whispers. The story was still unformed, but I had written a proposed ending months ahead of that, so I had a direction. I kept writing, kept typing and eventually finished a manuscript that I was somewhat proud of.

At the same time, I had joined a writing group at my local library. The first meeting that I went to was a blur, but I wanted to go back. I was anxious, feeling adrenaline high, and very sensitive about my story. It was my first time sharing my work in a long time, but that rush! I was doing something that I feared, letting others see the cobbled together work that I had put a couple years of effort into by then. I wanted to be proud of what I'd done, but seeing the flaws is a lot easier and self-deprecation is a safe place to hide your true feelings.



Let's fast forward a couple years, graduating high school was on the horizon and leaving behind everything I had known was a future fast approaching. I had been sending out query letters to agents and publishing houses, hoping for a lucky break. Island Whispers was in its "final" draft and I believed that if I just kept trying, someone might give me a chance.



At that point, I was writing fully with the intent to publish. I wanted to get my story out there. My lucky break came from my mom and her ability to always give me the right information when I need it. She met a woman at one of her meetings and by chance happened to speak about me and my story. The woman told her that I should query Ingram Elliott. With some apprehension, several drafted query letters and a final polish, I sent them an email with all the necessary information.

If you know me, then you know what happened next.

But, since this is about why I write and not how I got published, I'll curtail that story for now.

Bottomline: for my early years, I wrote because I loved to imagine.
In my middle years, I wrote to be heard.
Now, I'm back to the love of imagination and storytelling.

These days I write because I do enjoy it and because there are stories in my head that make me happy. I've done a number of different hobby activities over the years, but nothing has challenged or excited me as much as writing. So if you're looking for the answer to the two questions at the very beginning of this post, look no further. I was inspired by friends and books. The moment of knowing was gradual and even now I'm a pendulum on the matter. Nevertheless, I am still writing. I am a writer. This is why.