Years ago, my sister said to me, "Why don't you write a story about yourself?"
I didn't want to write a story about myself. I wanted to write to escape myself. Life hasn't been good to me, and putting myself into stories - yes, that's me in Halm Dresden - was therapeutic. Nor did I think my story was interesting, and I'm not likely to be on Australian story. Those words were filed away in the memory, soz sis, and life went on and changed.
One day, I was considering to write on Literotica. I'm glad I didn't go down that path now, having found God and becoming Catholic and all. The story would have been rite of passage, but yeah, not in a place I want it to be.
As with all good ideas, it was filed away in memory. But it kept bugging me. I had also put myself into a position of co-dependence and locking myself away - until the cycles I was going through pushed me back into the world, and wanting to address something I had been scared of, but realised in therapy for being abused as a child, and show myself to someone I held dear, that idea boiled back up stronger.
And then it happened. The idea intersected with inspiration, and a love story took form. And I began to outline, driven to do it listening to a 90's dance megamix (awesome work, Alex K!). And I poised myself over my laptop... and pissed myself laughing. "I'm writing a romance."
So, here I am, it's 10/01/20, and I have four chapters left to rewrite to my new style, and I'm the final read through away from releasing (okay, re-releasing, I got preemptive). And it's the autobiographical novel I should have written before I chopped heads off.
Inspiration is a funny thing. And I have two more intriguing, non-killing ideas I'm going to get around to. Here's to what makes writers tick.
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