Two minute read
I’d been writing for a very long time.
For many years I just wrote for fun – newsletters and touring booklets for my sporting clubs, silly happy stories about friends, little articles about insights I’d had.
I always wrote poetry too.
Then I was suddenly in a place in my life where I had to clear the decks, and bunker down without working or studying. That was such a difficult time, but it also gave me a beautiful opportunity to figure out what I wanted to do going forward.
Funnily enough, that thing was writing.
So, I began to construct a story. I couldn’t write for any length; my story-creating skills had not been stretched yet. I wrote another story, and another. Little short tales that made my heart flutter with excitement. My characters were like invisible friends that got me through that difficult period.
In the end I found I’d written a whole book of short stories. The stories were a little immature, too long, and lacking real development, but they were my stories, created out of my imagination.
Writing made real sense to me. Hours would fly past without me noticing. Plots would come to me as I lay down to sleep. Conversations would appear out of nowhere. Characters solidified in my mind until they were as real to me as people I actually knew.
The years have moved on and, with dedicated hard work, my writing has evolved. I now know there’s the story and then there’s the telling of the story. My skills have crystallised. The number of completed books has grown. My short stories have been perfected. My love for it has deepened.
And now, all these years later, I am ready to step into the light.
Joni Page 