Any aspiring author would tell you how exciting and hard it is to sit and face the prospect of writing. Sharing to the world your heart and soul, your fears and, subconsciously, your secrets is a daunting journey. Yet, the passion inside you, like a roaring ball of fire, dwarfs these negative emotions and you’re off to writing that story.
Mine started back in the summer of 2002, after I finished reading this book about a wizard and thought it's missing these elements I have come to expect from witchcraft novels. Before I knew it, I had grabbed a catleya notebook and started scribbling the first three chapters in one night, not knowing what the story would be or who the characters would be on it. My hands just started moving on its own. It's weird because I have this feeling the moon, somehow, triggered my writing to work.
I was not the good writer, nor the good reader (Encyclopedias are the only books that could keep my attention). I despise reading these texts without pictures, and so, I never dreamt, in eons, I could actually write a book.
9 years later, after countless editions, swearing, and reading blogs of authors and agents, I finished the first of the seven installments. Yes. Seven. CRAZY.
At the back of my mind, I rebelled at the thought I couldn't enjoy like my peers because I realized I just signed a lifelong contract with my story. And to make sure it is for me, I'd put the project aside for months and started enrolling in classes I thought could outpassion my writing. First, I enrolled in a wushu class. It was fun for a while, but it didn't fuel me with the vigor and excitement when I was writing the first drafts of the book. Next, I bought a DSLR camera and enrolled in a Photography class. Same thing happened: the first few weeks were OK, but then my liking sort of expired. And I knew I didn't belong. I kind of envy my classmates seeing the drive in their eyes, which something only writing could do to me.
And I was back with my novel. I printed it out (after being proofread and copyedited by a friend) and bind it and shared it to a few trusted friends. So far, I've got good feedbacks, and my confidence had started to build up. It's not that my story sucks, it's because I was trying to pull myself down thinking maybe it's not exciting enough or not marketable. And these positive comments made me believe it could happen.
I know this monster inside me would only rest when it sees my work on the bookshelves. That's what it's all about: not the money or the fame, I just want it published.
Mine started back in the summer of 2002, after I finished reading this book about a wizard and thought it's missing these elements I have come to expect from witchcraft novels. Before I knew it, I had grabbed a catleya notebook and started scribbling the first three chapters in one night, not knowing what the story would be or who the characters would be on it. My hands just started moving on its own. It's weird because I have this feeling the moon, somehow, triggered my writing to work.
I was not the good writer, nor the good reader (Encyclopedias are the only books that could keep my attention). I despise reading these texts without pictures, and so, I never dreamt, in eons, I could actually write a book.
9 years later, after countless editions, swearing, and reading blogs of authors and agents, I finished the first of the seven installments. Yes. Seven. CRAZY.
At the back of my mind, I rebelled at the thought I couldn't enjoy like my peers because I realized I just signed a lifelong contract with my story. And to make sure it is for me, I'd put the project aside for months and started enrolling in classes I thought could outpassion my writing. First, I enrolled in a wushu class. It was fun for a while, but it didn't fuel me with the vigor and excitement when I was writing the first drafts of the book. Next, I bought a DSLR camera and enrolled in a Photography class. Same thing happened: the first few weeks were OK, but then my liking sort of expired. And I knew I didn't belong. I kind of envy my classmates seeing the drive in their eyes, which something only writing could do to me.
And I was back with my novel. I printed it out (after being proofread and copyedited by a friend) and bind it and shared it to a few trusted friends. So far, I've got good feedbacks, and my confidence had started to build up. It's not that my story sucks, it's because I was trying to pull myself down thinking maybe it's not exciting enough or not marketable. And these positive comments made me believe it could happen.
I know this monster inside me would only rest when it sees my work on the bookshelves. That's what it's all about: not the money or the fame, I just want it published.