When I was a child, there was nothing I liked so much as to sit on a swing with a good book in my hand. I'd read and read, rocking gently back and forth on my toes. The world would emerge in my head. Then, I'd lean back and swing. Flying toward that world, flying into the vast blue sky.
I'm a writer because I can't seem to seperate myself from the realm of stories. Characters come to life in my head and go through all the pangs of life with me. A notebook and a pencil and a good dose of inspiration can be more exhilierating than a trip down a rollercoaster.
For ten years, I've set aside good chunks of my life to writing. I've studied creative writing in college and made fantasy writing my major. I read books on craft and books on marketing. I've heard advise from authors and experts and friends.
I still don't know what I'm doing.
Writing. Fantasy. Life. It's all a journey, isn't it? You start off flapping your wings. Eventually you jump. You hope desperately that all that practice adds up to something before you smack the ground.
And then you fly.