It’s anniversary time.
Today, eight years ago, I began my writing career with the serious intentions of one day becoming a published author and contribute to the society I live in with my imagination.
Since August 2006, I had a vision while dozing in the backwoods of Washington, near Mt. St. Helens. In the back seat of the car we rented, with a flitting image of matchstick pines running past my window, I saw out of the darkness a boy swathed in a whirlwind of fire he controlled. It was blinding. A surge of realization that came out of nothing into possibility. This became the inspiration for a story that would be the grandfather of all stories I composed thereafter. I have long since abandoned his story, for personal reasons, and will only refer to him as the Flare Saint.
In my abandonment, it is not a tragedy but a spreading of new seeds to grow. The Flare Saint became the fertile soil I needed to find other ventures of expression. He lives on in fragments through other characters and plots, not forgotten but celebrated. Without the Flare Saint, I would not have learned what it took to write not one novel but three fully fledged tombs with plans for an eight book series. I understood the kind of dedication, tenacity, and love required to be a storyteller. Armed with this knowledge, I set out nearly three years ago on an exploration of what other stories I can generate. After devoting nearly five years just to one plot line, it was like stepping out of a cave onto a ledge and seeing a vast expanse of land previously unknown to me. That summer, I wrote half a dozen short stories, which allowed me to experiment with tenses, points of view, and pacing I never could before. Some of those short stories I have been perfecting to this day; the others quietly await me to find the right timing to return and polish them up.
When I started out, I found writing to be an extension of myself. It was a way for me to live out experiences I knew I never could in reality. It was an escape, as it is for most of us. It is also a motivator to contribute to a society stuffed with poor writers, poor influences, and misdirection. I wanted to make a mark, to mean something, unlike so many people who pass through this world without ever benefiting the environment they live in. These values have not changed and only grew in eight years. I have matured since then, gained wisdom from new experiences, and acquired a thirst to learn more about this world, so I may endeavor to create more.
The picture below is what accompanied the first volume of the Flare Saint’s story when I self published it. It no longer is up for sale, having been taken down when I decided to leave it. It is a combination of all the elements and the tools to wield them. It is the combination that I believe stuck with my writing. The notion of out of many, one. I hope in the years to come I can show through my fiction that we writers like to recycle as well as to create. Reusing old ideas to refine and present a better, new one is a pillar of the kind of progress I see our world taking socially and technologically.
Right now I feel very close to a landmark milestone in my writing career. I know I am still young for a scribe, and I can’t wait for what life will present to me that will enrich my prose and engage my readers. I know that with humility and confidence, I can achieve all I desire. It’s just a matter of time…
For now, happy birthday. It’s been A Good one.