I wrote only for myself. I read voraciously, though slightly shallowly. I wrote beautifully crafted scenes and compelling characters. I read book after book on writing, (sometimes) did writing exercises, and challenged myself. Even if I could never finish anything, I was still writing, and it gave me more pleasure than anything else in the world.
I moved abroad, met a boy, started working. I did 20 000 words for NaNoWriMo. But, I stopped. Because writing wasn’t fun anymore. Pushing myself for the word count made it tedious and a race only to the end of the 2000 words. I wasn’t savoring the experience, I wasn’t enjoying the character’s twists and turns. I was pushing them and myself too far, and so I took a break. A long break.
I stopped writing in 2007. This year is the fifth year since I stopped writing. This year, I started exploring the idea of writing again, re-vamping characters and stories that are five years and even ten years old. Dusting them off and starting anew. And challenging myself: this year, I’ll writing a story with an ending.
This blog isn’t yet a success story. It’s more like a revival, like going back to basics, like exploring what does and doesn’t work for a tiny little unpublished author. I want to be a good author again.