I was in third grade when I published my first book. Self published, let’s say. Yes, it was a class project, but I remember thoroughly loving the process. Writing a story; drawing the pictures; and then turning it into something I could hold. (The story? About gummy bears. Riveting, I know.)
My love of writing books didn’t return until college. However, my addiction to story telling waxed ever since the third grade. I honed that skill through drawing. I drew everything. And every day. Sitting in my room, sketch pad and pencils in my lap, I labored over creating new things. For years, I wanted to be an animator. I dreamed of art school and toured Disney animation studios with mouth ajar.
But my love of drawing wavered in high school. I received a discouraging comment from an art teacher, and for some reason, I let that cast doubt. My confidence slipped. Yes, I have no one to blame but me—if I wanted it badly enough, I would have shoved that comment aside and pressed on. But I like to think my creative story didn’t end there—instead, it shifted.
Enter freshman year English class at Pepperdine University. Having never taken an AP or Honors class in my life, I was intimidated sitting in an English class where most of the students had. The first essay we wrote, I labored over. And labored over. Until, I realized, I was enjoying the process. Writing. Creating a narrative. Crafting sentences. It was like art all over again—except this time, with my words. And surprisingly, others enjoyed my craft too.
College introduced me to my new creative story. I was, however, a neophyte. I had never written monologues or screenplays or short stories. But I was desperate to learn. So, I wrote. And wrote badly. I received all kinds of feedback from professors and students—some positive, others constructive. All it did was drive me to write better. Write more. Constantly. I reacted so differently than I did with my art teacher’s comments that it solidified something in my mind: with art, I must not have wanted it enough. With writing? I wanted it. And wanted it badly.
During college, I read Harry Potter and knew my life would never be the same. Story telling through novels became a magic I could never live without. So I began to create my own stories. My own characters. My own books. The Missing Crimoire was largely dreamed up in my college dorm room.
Four years later, I graduated with a degree in writing—yes—but more importantly, with a passion for the craft that would change me forever. Ever since, I’ve called myself a writer.
Robin Puelma is my wife’s lifelong best friend. I’ve had the privilege of knowing her for 15 years. Robin and I have shared a love for similar books and movies since we first met. Her editing gifts include feedback on a story’s characters, pacing, and dilemma, to name a few. My stories have greatly benefited from her thoughtful, creative eye.
She published The Missing Crimoire and The Naming of Colton Black. Her characters and worlds will suck you in. If you haven’t checked out her books yet, you need to!
Want to know more about it her? Be sure to check out her blog. You can also find a post there on how I became a writer.
What about you? If you’re a writer, how did you get started? Do you have a writing buddy?