This isn’t a blog about my excuses for not writing. That’s too easy. I know, because I made excuses while decades passed. Instead, this is a blog to chronicle the reasons why I write and why I’m writing what I write. That keeps me accountable and is a more positive perspective to maintain.
I write, of course, because that’s what I do. I’m a writer. It’s truly amazing how long it took before I’d say that. It’s equally amazing how long it took before I’d allow myself to think it. I write about the world I created because it’s existed in my head since before I can recall its inception. I needed to get it out.
In high school I produced enough good writing to spark encouragement, but not enough to spark my tattered self-esteem. As the years rolled past I became increasingly dissatisfied with the fantasies I came across. I’d begin a series because it seemed new and original, but become disillusioned with the second book when I concluded I was basically reading the same story again.
Meanwhile, my own writing efforts were going nowhere, though to that point I hadn’t considered writing a fantasy. I’m not sure why. I’d start a book, but abandon it and start another with the same result. The lingering problem was that I didn’t believe in myself.
In the 1990s I returned to school where the faculty was again encouraging. When a paper I wrote was published locally it became increasingly difficult to deny I possessed skill. Instead, I devoted myself to other pursuits and obligations.
At the same time, the millions of pieces that would one day constitute the fantasy world I’d later create started crystalizing in my mind. When I was busy with work that didn’t require great concentration I’d summon that part of my brain that stored Ontyre (not yet called that or anything else) and I’d add more to what I’d created thus far. I didn’t write any of it down…just stored it in my brain until I’d summon it all again and add more. Too, a story started forming around my nameless fantasy world.
World building and story creation together were becoming to much to contain. I needed an outlet. My frustrations with the fantasies I’d read came together with the world in my mind and I dared wonder: might I be able to create the series I’d always wanted to read? In December 1999 I gave myself permission to find out. I gave myself permission to write a novel.
The creative explosion that followed even I wasn’t prepared for.