I had an experience a week ago, that has shaped and refocussed my energy towards my writing.

There’s a place in my mind where stories come from. I cannot say for sure where it is, or how the stories get formed or how they shape my life. They’re in there. I write something. They’re out. Sometimes they become longer things, and sometimes they stay short and stubby and not like any story anywhere.

10 years ago I started a journey that I thought would end in the publication of my first story, a wild fantasy that spins around a young boy I named after one of my forefathers. Then another book started and finished, still no publication. Then I started the work I’m doing today. My third story.

It’s hobbling, and I understand why. It’s a complicated thing to discover that you want to do something, and that you lack all the skills and language needed to make it happen. It’s a daunting thing to rework a story based on the desired target audience. I’ve worked hard to make myself better.

But I’ve also doubted myself and my skill. Do I truly have what it takes to bring a story to the point of traditional publishing? To work like a robot, through the stages required by an agent to make my book market ready? Rename characters, change the location, change the nature…

I had to ask myself the most important question. Would I still do this even if it brought nothing to the table, no money at all. Would I still want to write stories and live in this place in my mind?

Easy answer: Yes.

Rededicating myself to this act of writing, of crafting characters to suit the requirements of the publishing industry, looks like this. Like the first blog post on my website in a long time.

I’ll be thinking some things, I hope you think them with me.