“So Scheherazade rejoiced, and thus, on the first night of the Thousand Nights and a Night, she began her recitations.”
–One Thousand and One Nights
The first story I ever wrote was, frankly, terrible (as were all my early artistic attempts; never ask me about songwriting. *shudders*) I remember that it was definitely at least somewhat a ripoff of the Lord of the Rings, but with a self-insert character and romance. I have never shown it to anyone. If that had been all, I would never have willingly written another word.
The first time I intentionally wrote fanfic was marginally better. I had a goal, defined characters, and a plot. I was not ashamed to show it to a few people who were close to me. Fun, good for a laugh, nothing to write home about though.
But the first time that I called myself a writer–that was life-changing. I was in the middle of taking a poetry class in high school, and I thought, I could see myself doing this for the rest of my life. There was a poem–lost to the boxes of “old school projects” now–that I was proud of. That I wanted to show off.
I haven’t written written a novel yet. I make no money. But I am a writer, a storyteller. I shape the world through my pen–or keyboard–or voice.
Scheherazade told her stories to save her life and the lives of many other women. I, too, write to save my life and the lives of others. I write to change my corner of the world and make it safer–or make it more beautiful.
I write because I must.
That is what makes me a writer.