…writing was fun.
When I was a kid, writing was play. It was something I did because I wanted to, like having friends sleepover or fooling around with my dollhouse or throwing a ball to my Sheltie. I didn’t write because anyone told me I had to. I wrote because I wanted to, plain and simple. I loved telling stories.
Most of my early writing was written for someone. I wrote an entire series of Nancy Drew-esque mystery stories for my cousin Vinnie that pitted the wits of two thinly-veiled protagonists against a number of tricky situations. A high school overrun by vampires (this was long before the days of Twilight and bloodsucker overkill), an evil uncle in Scotland with a nefarious plot, etc. I loved writing those stories, but the best part was giving them to Vinnie and seeing his reaction.
When I got a little older, I wrote a story for a girlfriend where the two of us and the two boys we were madly in love with (who were only vaguely aware that we existed) were snowed in at the local diner. (This was a much more innocent time, so nothing too scandalous ensued.) It was writing as entertainment–for myself and my peers. Most of my poems were a loving tribute to one friend or another. I was always eager to write the next thing, but I don’t remember any pressure to write.
Writing is not a hobby for me. I want it to be my career, so I’m going to have to take it more seriously than when I was a kid. That’s a given. Is there still a way to make it more fun, I wonder?
Any advice for me, dear readers? How do you keep having fun at your calling? Or do I have to accept that the days of having fun (at least in this respect) are over?
On the bright side, I am almost finished the first draft of the new novel! As far as I can tell, I have three more scenes before the big confrontation. Then it’s just a matter of writing the epilogue and I’m done. That will be worthy of a HUGE celebration!