When I was younger I would never write anything and to be honest, I never really read anything either! I had a diary that only lasted a month or so because I got bored of the routine after a while. Whenever I did write, it was for school. My oldest and fondest memory of writing was in year 3 in primary school. We were told to create a story from the idea of "a hole in the fence." Mine was insanely strange and didn't really have any plot to it. I remember writing about going beyond this "hole in the fence" and finding an alien there, where it then ate me and whilst in it's mouth I discovered a bomb...which then, of course, blew up and I died. I also remember in year 5, this story also lead to these characters being eaten. It was based on these different fruit and veg who were trying to escape but (sadly) the human came down and ate them (they later died in stomach!). I remember this story being SO long that whilst my class were watching a film, I was still writing.
Since then, I discovered books! And what a brilliant world they are. I have never been so wrapped up in anything other than the world of books and reading them.
I guess when I say "creative writing", I mean writing stories, in some shape or form. It was probably around when I was 15, half way through year 10, when I sat down in front of a computer to type whatever came out of my head. I remember it was the time when I had just recently finished reading All American Girl by Meg Cobat and loved the idea of a prince and an every day girl. I titled it "Prime Man" as the main character Sammi falls in love with who she thought was the Prime Minister's son...but then later find out he isn't! Dun dun dun! Haha, it's pretty cringe-worthy stuff, here's a little taster of my awful writing inspired by Meg Cobat:
I need to get away. I can’t deal with the phones ringing in my head and a never ending noise of chatter. Having a load of shots before leaving the club was a bad idea. I practically run out of the office and quickly walk to the park round the corner where I find an empty bench which I sit on. I lean back and shut my eyes, listening to the birds chirp their little hearts out.
“I thought I told you to wait?”
I jumped and I opened my eyes. Brent. He smiled and sat next to me. This is not my day.
“So what happened to you? You just left me there. I had to ask to find out what happened to you and Rebecca said you basically ran out of the door.”
I ignored him. I just wanted him to leave, so I just sat there and didn’t say anything.
“Ah, I see, were playing the ‘I’m not speaking to you’ game. Alright then, I’ll talk to you and you can just sit in mute zone. But I have to warn you I may get annoying!”
“What do you want from me? Do you just want to get laid or something? ‘Cause if you do your talking to the wrong girl.” I fold my arms and wait for his response; he seems surprised by my outburst.
“If I wanted to get laid, I would be able to find another person who will be much more willing than you. No, you intrigue me. I‘ve read some of your articles, including the one about my dad and I’m impressed. None of the shit that other journalists normally write.”
Now it was my turn to be shocked by what he said. I suddenly take in the fact that, although he is the president’s son, he is also an average twenty five year old.
“Well, I’m glad you enjoyed it. Now if you excuse me, I need to get back to work.” I get up and start to walk away. He gets up and walks beside me.
“Are you just going to stalk me or what?” I pick up my pace to try ditch him but I know that he’s not going to. He’s on my heels.
“Like I said, you intrigue me. I was wondering if I could take you out some time?”
“Take me out?” I almost burst into laughter, “Won’t it be bad for your image, being seen with me, a journalist? Where’s your girlfriend?” I look around and the carry on moving.
“I don’t have one,” he slides his hands into his pockets, “And I think that if I was worried about how people see me I wouldn’t be talking to you now.”
Interesting right....? Realistic? No. I find it so funny when I read back over this! I wrote quite alot and they're all split into smaller chapters, but I never wrote an ending. I had a beginning and middle-ish part, which I couldn't wrap my head around properly...(it involved a love-triangle!) I guess you could say I lost the plot of it all and ended it, unfinished. I have been always troubled by the middle sections of books and therefore never make it to the end! Is it always this hard?
When did you start writing and what you write? Better or worse than my extract?...i don't think it could be worse ;P
Is there a writer in every reader or is reading just a side hobby and nothing more? Comment below, I'd love to hear all your views :D
Coming Soon: Behind This Reader, Is There A Writer? Part 2!