This might come as a shock but my favorite activity is writing. I know, you’re surprised. Take a moment. Let it sink in. You done? Good, moving on. I started writing two years ago. I’d made some really stupid choices in my life. Those stupid choices led to a month long hospital stay. I knew I needed to make a few changes, but I needed something to replace those stupid choices. Writing fit the bill.
I lived with my first story in my head for months. I started and stopped this one story several times. When I finally finished, I’d written a 117,000 word opus that sucked worse than a jet engine flying through a flock of migratory birds. Naturally, I thought it was genius. I thought it would be difficult to write a second book. Everyone says the sophomore attempt is more difficult than the first. I didn’t have that problem. My problem was deciding on which book I would write. You see I don’t write stories, I tell stories. People show up in my brain and don’t leave until I give their story breath. Sometimes I imagine my brain as a line at Disneyland. Each character not so patiently waiting for their turn on Katie Harper Mountain. Sometimes these imaginary people get into fights over whose story is going to be next and I have to put them on time out. It’s a very schizophrenic process.
Writing has saved my life, in every literal sense. I am indebted to writing for the rest of eternity. If I have to continue writing until the day I die to pay that debt, I guess I’ll have to sacrifice. It will be tough, but I can do it. HAH!