The year was roughly near the end of 2006. Good year. It was the year that I started reading books. Science-fiction and fantasy. Oh, sure I had read before. In the same way that you would drink water if somebody suddenly just handed it to you. But 2006 was the year that I really got into the reading habit.
I devoured book after book after book. And not just any random book off the NY Times bestseller shelf, because let's face it -- not all the books that reach that place are even worth the glance. One word - Twilight.
No. I read books that filled your head with the best kind of fudge. The kind of books that filled your head wonders, and ideas, fears and hopes, inspirations and despairs, and a wide-eyed look on your face - the kind of books that leaves you awed in its scorching wake.
That's what authors Terry Pratchett, Douglas Adams and Anne Rice all left me reeling from the power of their words. The wonder festered and grew in my mind, and it met up with inspirations and ideas and it brought forth a dream.
I suddenly wanted to write. I suddenly had things I wanted to say. I had stories I wanted people to know about. I suddenly wanted to be a funny guy who wanted to write funny shit. And I tried writing funny shit. I tried to be randomly funny like Douglas Adams, and I tried to be serious, and wittily funny like Terry Pratchett. And then I wrote - or tried to write dark stuff like Anne Rice. I thought I was fairly okay at it. Until I read them six months later.
I realized that they were utter bullshit. Somewhat unique, but that didn't stop them from being utter bullshit. Sure, some had their funny moments, but I was disheartened by my storytelling abilities. I was discouraged by the lack of depth in any of attempted stories, humorous or otherwise. But, the stuff I was writing right then seemed to decent enough.
Boy, was I wrong six months later. But I realized something. I was getting better and better. Every time I wrote some crap, and saw it as it was, I improved. I stopped trying to imitate my idols, Pratchett and Adams, in my writing style. They were a league of their own, and they had reached their point through their own hardwork.
I noticed that I was beginning to mature. I had developed my own style, and found my own little niche (sort of).
It was definitely not what I had in mind when I first started. But it was not something I was unpleased with. After three years, I have to say that I have gotten pretty good at writing fiction and fantasy. I am not the best, but I like to think that I am a lot better than a lot of the writers who make the NY Times Bestseller list.
The imitation was necessary. We must ALL start somewhere. And those two geniuses, Terry Pratchett and Douglas Adams, gave me the push into the world of writing. Terry Pratchett, with his chaos-ordered world, inspired me to write more than anything. Oh, sure, there were other authors who had come and left their mark - Neil Gaiman, Mike Carey, Jonathan Straud, Stephen King, Frank Herbert, and so many others. They've all come and left their mark. But no one like Terry. I still reel in awe when I reminisce about the awesomeness that is the Discworld series, and the genius behind it.
Bottom line is, I had to start somewhere, and I may have started at a relatively crappy place as far as storytelling goes, but I'm improving and I'm learning something new everyday. Reading old stories may send goosebumps up and down my arm, and make squirm at the horribly lackluster storytelling, but that just means I know better now.
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