The Dark One
Auror
Why did you become a writer?
What weird quirk of your personality...what hideous twist of fate decreed that you would spend thousands of hours in empty rooms, tapping your life away for the opportunity to be humiliated and/or ignored?
What drives us? Like lemmings running towards the cliff surrounded by our eager fellows, we many...we sad, deluded many...hurtle towards oblivion...inured to rejection...insouciant of the odds.
Blinded by the light that shines but for one in a million...
I've always been a writer in some form or other and what drives me is The Urge. I can't turn it off - a well spring of story that just keeps running and running. I still leap out of bed at three in the morning when I have an idea that just has to be written down.
When I first decided to get serious about writing - ie make a career of it - I was compelled to be a success. I was obsessed with it. But as I get older, and as my storytelling craft improves, I find that I am now a writer for other reasons.
I love the art of storytelling for its own sake. I am never so happy as when I am absolutely flying with a first draft that is so strong the story tells itself.
Having been doing this for about 27 years, I have had a teensy bit of success - several books published and I have certainly achieved an audience.
And that's what I most love about it now. People perceive me as a writer - even if only a small w writer - and like to talk to me about my work and about literature generally. It would have seemed very small beer when I was starting out but it takes experience to perceive the value of just one person enjoying your work and grateful for the fact that you did spend so much time in the lonely room, hammering your life away.
I have made a contribution to the archives of my epoch, and that makes me very happy.
What weird quirk of your personality...what hideous twist of fate decreed that you would spend thousands of hours in empty rooms, tapping your life away for the opportunity to be humiliated and/or ignored?
What drives us? Like lemmings running towards the cliff surrounded by our eager fellows, we many...we sad, deluded many...hurtle towards oblivion...inured to rejection...insouciant of the odds.
Blinded by the light that shines but for one in a million...
I've always been a writer in some form or other and what drives me is The Urge. I can't turn it off - a well spring of story that just keeps running and running. I still leap out of bed at three in the morning when I have an idea that just has to be written down.
When I first decided to get serious about writing - ie make a career of it - I was compelled to be a success. I was obsessed with it. But as I get older, and as my storytelling craft improves, I find that I am now a writer for other reasons.
I love the art of storytelling for its own sake. I am never so happy as when I am absolutely flying with a first draft that is so strong the story tells itself.
Having been doing this for about 27 years, I have had a teensy bit of success - several books published and I have certainly achieved an audience.
And that's what I most love about it now. People perceive me as a writer - even if only a small w writer - and like to talk to me about my work and about literature generally. It would have seemed very small beer when I was starting out but it takes experience to perceive the value of just one person enjoying your work and grateful for the fact that you did spend so much time in the lonely room, hammering your life away.
I have made a contribution to the archives of my epoch, and that makes me very happy.