How do I write right?

Writing is like riding a bike, you never forget how to do it. Well I forgot how to ride a bike so, that’s not very helpful. Well, I didn’t actually forget, when it was time to upgrade to a big girl bike I got scared of how tall the bike was and I lost all my confidence to ride one, so I never bothered trying ever again. Writing is more like that.


I’ve written since being a kid, poems, stories, even songs, which no one will ever hear because they are an embarrassment to the medium, and my brother can attest to that. But one good thing about writing in your youth is that you have no inhibitions, that little voice in the back of your head telling you your poem or your story is no good, it doesn’t exist.
But trying to advance to writing in my adult years with the mindset that any one of my stories could be published was a daunting endeavour. So many ideas and so many false starts and hardly anything to show for all my dreams and ambitions.


Writing with the finish line in mind, for me, made me not want to enter the race. Throw in a few set backs like concentrating on my studies and a potential career in teaching, working in an early years setting with a potential to progress to speech and language therapy, and raising a family, I didn’t find much time to do any writing at all.
Now don’t get me wrong, having a family, although never part of my “grand plan”, has been the greatest joy of my life and if I had pursued either one of my potential career paths, I might have been more successful but would I have been truly fulfilled? Perhaps it’s selfish to cling to a childhood dream and attempt to galvanise it into something that doesn’t induce horror and disgust in the people that bear witness to your creation, but whether or not it’s hideous it’s your child and as every good mother knows, all your children are beautiful, even the monsters.


So cling to that dream I did.
I took up the pen and wrote whatever I wanted, whatever came to mind, if it was no good or not right or just plain bad, I was writing again. When my children were napping, late into the wee hours of the morning, in the back of the car waiting for my eldest to get out of school, anywhere and anytime I could, I did it. I was a scribomaniac.


With one completed novel, the first in a series under my belt and many others in various stages of development, I am slowly getting back on the bike, but for now, I think I’ll keep the stabilisers on and take it slowly.

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