In the beginning there was pen and paper. Well, not a pen. It would have been a pencil. I had an older brother so I’m sure my parents knew better.
So, let’s begin again.
In the beginning there was pencil, paper and an idea. I don’t know what the idea was, I was just a kid. I’m betting it probably wasn’t a very good one, or one that made very little sense. When I first developed a love for writing I was into books like The Black Stallion, Wild Dog, and Max: Dog on the Run. So, understandably, the first stories I wrote were animal related.
I had papers everywhere. Notebooks upon notebooks. Loose papers filled with my scribblings. It was a real fire hazard.
When my parents divorced my mother rid us of much of those stories. A few years later my stepmother cleaned out from under my bed where I kept them stashed. I thought they were organized. Once she placed them in the box, I realized I knew nothing of organization, because that was a colossal mess.
In between my mother throwing out and the step mother putting in a box, roughly 15-18, I was sitting at a laundry mat with my dad and asked him if he wanted to read the book I just finished. It was my first. He read a little, his big question was if I could use words like that in a book. It started with some foul language I never considered I would be sharing with my dad. I don’t think he read much, but he asked if it was typed would I be able to do something with it. At that time, I could not type, and if I could, I had nothing to type it on. I said yes, indeed I could. So, he gave it to my sister-in-law to type. I never saw it again.
It was the first story I had written that did not center around an animal. Whether it was good or not we’ll never know. I am guessing maybe not. I won’t go into detail here, you never know, it may be reinvented. But probably not. Anyway. Around that time, I got an address for a book publisher and wrote them a little letter. They were polite enough to reply. They were merely a reprint house but gave me the name and address of another publisher. Alas, I had nothing to submit.
Soon after I began to focus on a journalism career. I still wrote fiction. I have never been able to shed that, which by this time, had become like an addiction. Not a heroin addiction, but I do get crabby if I have something in my head waiting to be written and I can’t find the time to get it on paper. Well, in this day and time in my computer. But I still enjoy the old-fashioned way. Often it flows better that way.
In the attic of my garage I still have at least one box of those scribblings. I look forward to the day I might take it down and look through them and see what crazy ideas I once had. I’m sure they fit right in with the crazy ideas I have to this day.