What does it mean to be a Writer?

“How can I possibly be a writer?”

“I’m not as good as others.”

“I’m too young to write.”

“My writing isn’t going where I want it.”

“Writer’s block has me stuck.”

“Should I just give up?”

“What’s the point if I’ll never be published?”

We’ve all thought or heard these before. Being a writer isn’t easy, but even more so when you’re a teen writer. I’ve been a writer ever since I could pick up a pencil. Trust me, one of the hardest parts is overcoming the negative view of being a teen/young writer. But I’m here to tell you that you’re never too old or too young to write. Adult writers may seem intimidating and more knowledgeable about the world, which is only true because they’ve lived longer than us. But this by no means makes them a better writer. Being part of multiple writers groups, I talk to adult writers on a daily basis. Some are very good writers while some have only just started. Though I’m young, barely an adult, some of my writing can surpass that of an adult writer. The reason? I’ve been writing my whole life and working on my current work in progress, Queen of Light, for about seven years now.  It is by no means perfect, but my work ethic is that of an adult; that’s all that matters.

Let’s take a step back for a moment. You may be asking yourself: “How can overcome writer's block?” “How can I compete with other writers?” “What if I can’t write very well?” The solution: write. It’s that simple. A draft is a draft no matter the quality. Many writers can’t find the motivation to write. And if you can get something down on the paper you’re ahead of the game. As long as you can get your story out you’re already doing better than some; there’s always time for editing later. And if you absolutely can’t think of what to write or how to start, just take your story and imagine hypothetical situations with the characters. It may not seem like much, but taking this time to explore your world is very important. If it is underdeveloped it adds to the frustration of not being able to write. But there’s no rush. I know how you feel. “How great would it be to be published before I’m 18?” It’s a nice thought and all, but the reality is some can do it and some can’t. I’ve accepted that it won’t be true for me, but I keep writing. Why? Because no matter what age I am I’m a writer. There’s a story in me that needs to get out. And there’s a story in each and every teen writer too, and they are just as meaningful and important as one inside an adult writer.

Believe it or not, being a teen writer is actually better than being an adult writer at times. Though we have less experience, we have more time and at this age our imaginations are one of the most active. I’ve found this to be true. Over the years my imagination has only expanded, allowing me to rework my story and add fix problems. So even if you’re simply thinking about a story you’re doing something right. You have all the time in the world to write. Don’t stress about word count or publishing, they can sometimes be distracting.

Now, you may have an idea for a story, but you’re not sure how to work it. What should you do? Ask for help of course! It’s easy. If you have a close friend or teacher or parent ask them to look it over. Having unbiased eyes, eyes of someone who doesn’t write, is a big help. They won’t nit pick at the details, they’ll be looking for how the story works as a whole. And if you have that you’ve already made the skeleton for your story; fleshing it out is easy from there. And if they tell you they don’t like it, don’t get discouraged. It might not be their cup of tea; they could prefer a different genre. But show more than one person so you get a more well rounded opinion. And if there’s a similar point from all, you know what to fix. It’s very important to get opinions of potential readers, to see what people want to read. I’m not saying write to appease popular demand, but sometimes the opinions of the mass are important to think about when writing. The point isn’t to make them happy though, it’s to make yourself happy. But for those who want to be published, public opinion may weigh more heavily.

And what’s the real goal here? Sure, it would be nice to be published and famous, but that’s not why anyone should write. You should write because it’s fun, because you want to. If writing becomes a chore you won’t want to do it anymore. That’s what I do. I write short stories and poetry in addition to my novels. Not for hopes of being published, but because it’s fun to write. It can even be addicting at times. But fact of the matter is, you, yes you, can do it. You can write that novel. You can be amazing. It can be hard at times, and you might want to quit. Take it from someone who’s thought about throwing their story away many times; it’s hard to quit once you start. For me, I just couldn’t abandon the world I created. Something about it pulled me back. And yours can do the same.

Writing isn't throwing words on paper hoping they’ll all make sense. It’s an art. Using the heart, mind, and soul to transport readers to another world. Writing is important to me, and I’m sure it is to many of you as well. It’s been there for me when I was lonely and made me feel like I was good at something. So push through the struggles; you can do it. I’m still here, writing, and so will you. Never give up. Someone out there needs your story. Even if I only have one fan I will always write. So don’t be so hard on yourself; don’t compare yourself to older and more experienced writers. You can only be you. Work at your own pace. You will be truly great, but it takes time. You’ll see yourself make progress. That’s the best feeling in the world. Keep writing. If you’re truly a writer your heart will know. It will never let you throw away something you’ve worked so hard on. So go out and share your story. The world needs it.  

The Wild Hunt

An answer to Kristian's opening sentence prompt...

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When the moon turned blood red she knew. The Wild Hunt had started. The howls of the Sidhe’s hounds chilled Brighid’s blood. She quickly stamped out the meager fire she had just managed to kindle. “If they catch me, what will I become?”

The wind felt like thousands of knives pricking her skin. She ran the short distance to her shelter, managing to trip over the fire wood. She slammed the thin wooden door and slid down the rough surface. The entire structure of the hovel was shaking as the pounding of hooves became thunderous. The shadows on the walls seemed to be dancing and advancing towards her.

She heard the hunting horn and the whoops of the riders. The hounds were yelping in excitement. They had locked onto prey. Something slammed into the door and began scratching at it. Brighid let out a whimper. She heard the crunching of hooves on the fallen leaves. Her nails bit into her palms as she tried her best to stay silent. “There’s nothing here boy.” It was a female’s voice. “Come on, let’s rejoin the hunt.” Brighid held her breath until the sound of galloping faded away. She swiped away the tears that were streaming down her face. Every scenario of why the girl didn’t even try to open the door raced through her mind. Then she heard a piercing shriek and understood. They found somebody else. Another screech pierced the forest and then came the melodious chanting that used to be so soothing. It now caused her to tremble uncontrollably.      

Silence.

Brighid was frozen in place and the only thing she could hear was the pounding of her heart in her ears. Is it over? She raked her pale and shaking hand through her cinnamon hair. She blinked away the tears and let out a breath, “I’m safe,” she whispered. She slowly stood, feeling like a newborn foal. She brushed off the dirt from her roughspun skirt and peaked through the window. There were glittering flakes of white falling in the obsidian night, the first snow of the season. “It’s over.” She fell to her knees in relief, barely noticing the cold breeze that tickled her neck.

“Is it?” It was a male’s voice and sent a spike of ice down her spine. Brighid watched as the window began to frost over. The layers became thicker and thicker until the ice became opaque and she was forced to confront her unwanted companion.

He was swathed in a white cloak of animal fur which almost matched his skin tone. His black hair seemed to be tipped with frost. He was surrounded by a ring of ice that all of the other ice in the room seemed to emanate from. Brighid knew exactly who he was. He was the Winter King.

“M-my lord.” Despite the cold she was sweating.

He had his head cocked and was examining her like she was a stock animal up for auction. “A decent addition, I guess.” His voice was deep. He withdrew a flask and slunk towards Brighid, “Open up.”

Brighid finally found her voice, “Wait! I can be useful. Much more useful in this form.” She started laughing nervously.

He rose an eyebrow. “How?”

“I know what the humans are planning. I know where they are planning to strike.”

“How.”

“I’m easily ignored and when they do notice me, they assume that i don’t understand what they’re talking about. Changelings, after all, are perhaps the least valued denizens of my village.”  Her back hit the wall.

The Sidhe lifted the sapphire flask to her lips. “I’m sure that information will be quite valuable, after you drink.” Brighid sealed her lips together and the Sidhe’s brow knitted together, “It’s only winter wine.” His cold finger trailed down her cheek.

“Winter wine,” Brighid murmured. A bad move because as soon her mouth opened he poured the wine down her throat. It felt like her veins had been flooded with ice water.

The Sidhe smiled. “Welcome to the ranks of the Sidhe. I do hope you will be as useful as you promised.” Brighid’s vision became fuzzy. “It’s time to enter your new life.”

Her world dissolved into thousands of swirling snowflakes.

Who Am I?

Who am I?  A question I have pondered for the longest time; one many others have asked as well. Identity has been something I've struggled with for almost my entire life, but now I think I have an answer.
My name is Alyssa and I'm a freshman biology major from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Ever since I could pick up a pencil I've been a writer. The one I remember writing about two rival fairies fighting to be queen of all the fairy children; I was eight years old.  Back then I only wrote for fun. It wasn't until I was twelve that I began to take writing seriously. I had two other writer friends. We all wrote a collaborative fan fiction that consisted of multiple fandoms. It was enjoyable at first, but as our story progressed I realized I was the only one who had their own characters and plot. The concept of using another world made me uneasy. So what did I do? I started my own story with my own ideas and characters. 
Back then I had no direction. The plot was everywhere. My characters were static. Over the years I've improved tremendously. The little story that started out as a creative outlet is now a full blown novel. Though the plot and characters have changed more times than I can count, this story is my child. It's called Queen of Light, a young adult fantasy that sets to redefine the fantasy genre and its capabilities.

My story is by no means perfect, but after almost seven years of working on it, most of the big issues have been sorted out. My story and writing have come such a long way. It's incredible to look back at the beginning of my journey to see how much I've improved. I've even entered writing contests for with the short stories I've written. This past year I got first place in one held by a local college. 
Now I even mentor other teen writers. Nobody taught me how to write or edit; I taught myself. And I'm grateful that God has given me such a talent. So I use what I know to help those who struggled as I did all those years ago. I'm by no means a perfect writer, I just do my best. I hope my experiences and guidance can make a difference in the lives of writers and readers everywhere. 
Keep writing, my friends. I know you can achieve great things.   

 

 

Prompt for Madison

One of my favorite parts of writing is the first sentence. First sentences can draw in a reader. So Madison, I want you to write a story or poem that starts with this phrase.

The Bang

An origin story. It was tricky to think of a beginning. The beginning of what? A world, a character? It hit me yesterday, and it happened. -Kristian

It started with a bang. 

Not a big bang, by any means. It was more of a hand half heartedly hitting the wall type of bang. A bang that ushers in winter compared to spring.

Markee Owens slid into the world on the newly mopped floor of the Acres High girl’s bathroom.

Feebe’s last priority had been finishing this last floor, this last bathroom. She was a thick girl, with her hair tied back in a severe ponytail that stretched her pale skin and gave the skin around her green eyes premature crow’s feet.  She was well past high school but still young enough to be figuring out what she wanted. She wore old, worn sneakers and loose tan pants and a once loose button up. She’d gained plenty of weight in her stomach the last couple of months, and yet no one asked. 

Feebe had just continued trucking on, rolling out of her small twin bed, shuffling in the morning into the bathroom, often hunched over the toilet puking. A new step in her morning routine. No one asked how she felt. No one asked if she’d seen the doctor. No one asked who the father was. No one asked if she was pregnant.

So she convinced herself that the night never happened. That the brief and intense happiness had never occurred. It’d been a dream.

Until her shirt tightened. 

Until her sick spells became more than a cold, more than a sudden virus or infection. 

That’s when the doctor came into play. And the news was spelled out in clear letters. Pregnant.

Feebe had just finished mopping, as if she knew inside, the inside you hid from, that her contractions and birth would speed up at such a rate that the bathroom would serve as the newborn’s first exposure to the world.  She prided herself on her cleaning speed: bending over, whipping that hand towel into nooks and crannies, and catching the smallest debris.

Now those hands held a newborn baby that was staring at her through slitted eyes, mouth open with no scream. 

That night had really happened. Her calloused fingers brushed over the baby’s wet skin, stopping at the pointed ears. Larger and more shapely than human ears.

That's what one gets when meddling with nonhumans. 

Markee continued to stare at her mother in a quiet, nonhuman fashion, like she was staring at prey.

Feebe brushed off the dread, remembering the brown eyes, lean muscle and soft voice of Markee's father. Everything would be okay. 

Feebe stood up, looking down at the mess she’d have to clean up, and began what she knew best. Cleaning. This time her own flesh and blood.