Member-only story
But, I Just Want to Write…
I was 8 years old, when I first uttered “I want to be a writer!” — not exactly knowing how that would be like. I got my grandpa’s old mechanical typewriter and off I went typing up small, innocent kid stories. I quickly learned how to blindly type with 10 fingers and my typing speed only went up from there. Then life happened and except some small bouts of writing a few short stories here and there, I didn’t write creatively for close to 15 years.
Yep, you read that right. It hurts to admit it so soberly. Wasting time, eh?
At least I read a lot whole this time. That’s something. If you believe Stephen King, it might even be more important than writing.
He probably just wants us to buy his books…
Me, a successful writer
In my imagination I’m sitting in a log cabin, wearing PJs the whole day, writing on one bestselling novel after the other. I have my hair unkept, I’m surrounded by a mystic “author’s aura” and I wear thick glasses, because I’m proud to wear them as a sign of my (allegedly) superior imagination and intellect. I have no real sleep-cycle and work whenever inspiration hits me. I’m a loner, I only have one very close friend and maybe a beautiful young…
