I have always considered myself an aspiring writer. I have been writing since I first grasped a pencil and understood that the letters I struggled to form on paper could be made to illustrate the ideas and images I had bouncing around my overly active imagination.

Follow up:

All my life I had collected half written stories, novel ideas and bits of creative chaos and stashed them away for “someday”, but someday just never seemed to come. About five years ago I met the woman who is now my best friend in all the world and we discovered we both loved to write. (and eat chocolate… it’s a perfect friendship) We produced massive quantities of fiction together while gaming in a Play By Email Campaign in one of the many worlds developed by Dungeons and Dragons. (No, its not satanic, its not even scary, and you can stop laughing at me any time now.) Where was I, oh yes, massive quantities of fiction. Some of what we wrote was damn good, some of it horrifyingly bad, and all of it was fun to create. Still though, neither of us sought to bring our writing to an audience.

Most people are creative in one way or another, we all have a muse’s voice whispering in our ear from time to time, urging us to create and inspiring us to use the talents we were born with. At least for me, that sweet siren song (or in some cases cursing and demanding howls for more words) vanishes the moment a work is completed. My muse is apparently only interested in creation, not in publishing and she never sticks around to encourage me to share my work with the world. Instead I hear the other voices, the ones that are very convinced I suck as a writer and am deluded if I think anyone would ever willing read what I’ve created. And so it went, year after year. The creation continued, but never got shared with anyone, not even my parents who would have loved to see it.

So what changed? I lost my little brother to Sudden Adult Death Syndrome two years ago. He went on vacation and never came home. He always lived his life to the fullest, if he wanted to do something, he just did it. When he died, it drove home to me that if ever I was going to stop aspiring to be a writer and actually be one, I better get on with it.

It will be a year this spring that I first got published, a Cracked.com topic page on Dungeons and Dragons that managed to garner me a free t-shirt (which I never got) and more importantly it put my name on something I had created and an acknowledgement from successful writers that I was good. Good enough to try again anyway. As you know if you are reading this, I kept trying; and some days I even succeed.

This morning I got an email from one of you, the readers I am grateful to for reading my work wherever it is published, or visiting my tiny corner of the web and reading my thoughts, rants and creations.He thanked me for my work, and told me I had contributed to making his day better. What more can a writer ask for than that?

For each and every one of you who read this today, tomorrow or years from now; thank you. Thank you for reading, for allowing me the honour of being part of your lives. Having the courage to show my work to the world made me a writer. But knowing that my words are read and sometimes enjoyed, that makes me a successful writer. And that means everything.

Susan

PS For those who are wondering. Yes, my friend and I are still writing. It is my hope that in 2010, we’ll have completed the first of many works together. And when the time comes, I’ll be sharing them here.