Let's ignore the fact that the title is probably grammatically incorrect. It's a blog day, and it's almost midnight, and I feel like writing this blog for YA Highway.
Well, when did I start writing is a better question than why...
I remember being in the first grade. Our teacher took these tinted pieces of lined paper, the kind where there are three lines, with the middle line dotted so we could practice our writing. She took the paper, folded them in half, and stapled them, and then had us write stories. If they were really good, they were "published" in hardcovers made with wallpaper.
I remember writing "what life will be like in 2000" (a cheesy version of Back to the Future part II), "when I was little" and "How the Easter Bunny Got His Job." (I really liked that one.) I also wrote a somewhat disturbing story about mind control at such a young age.
I enjoyed these activities, and I enjoyed it because all I knew was that I liked to be creative.
Now we fast forward to third grade where we paired a huge art project with a story, which I wrote as a complete rip off of a Baby Sitters Club Book. But I didn't care because I liked telling the story.
Fifth grade I think is when I truly realized the "why." Why? Because I had all these stories floating around in my head, and by that point I knew that if I didn't write them down, my head would explode, which isn't nearly as cool as if it were to implode. (The only story I can remember at that age was about human sibling falling in love with alien siblings.)
Oh the stories that I remember writing because I needed to tell a story! A wicked stepmother and her two daughters.... (this was a record for me at 17 pages, double sided and illustrated!) One about a girl having an outer body experience, one about a girl being framed for murder by her brother, one about a vindictive teen utterly jealous of her twin sister... (Are you noticing a trend here? I like the suspense.) A girl who was given a "second life" after accidentally being killed. (A rip off of a movie I saw on tv.)
Let me just stop to say that I'm sorry about the way this post is going. As I stated above, it's almost midnight, and I'm tired.
Now it's weird to think about. A few of my stories were clearly rip offs which I tried to make my own. But a lot of them were very original and gained length every time. I loved sitting there at the computer, writing the story, and then that new idea came forward and I ended up missing my bed time trying to finish the story.
Several years later, a novel under my belt and a tighter understanding of story telling, and I'm still amazed by my love of writing. It's not to feel special, it's not to complete an assignment given by a teacher, and it's not to gain fame. It's to keep me from going insane from all these imaginary worlds swirling around inside my head!
Possibly cliche, but that's my story... no pun intended.