Today I turned twenty-one years old. A milestone in anyone’s life, I think. And when you consider the fact that I’ve been writing since I was probably…nine, that means I have been writing for twelve years.
It sounds like such a long time. And in those twelve years, I feel I have learned a lot as a writer. Oh, of course my grammar and punctuation has improved by leaps and bounds.
But I’m talking about writing. Not the grammar and punctuation (which are very necessary), but the craft. The development of characters, and the use of details. Tweaking how I deliver, continue and finish a story.
Sometimes, after getting a rave review from one of my friends, I start to feel on top of the world. Like I’ve actually got something amazing and I can go places with it. But when I step back and make a logical examination, or when I read some fantastic piece of writing from another author, I am suddenly struck by just how small I am. Just how insignificant my writing can be.
Still, I try not to get down about this fact. I think to live a good life you have to have a proper mix of dreams and reality.
And when I stop and think about it. I have a whole life time (Lord willing) ahead of me to continue to learn and grow as a writer. So I have twelve years of writing under my belt — but what about in thirty years, won’t my writing be so much better? Hopefully, the answer will be yes.
Wishing you all well,