As the month comes to an end, I find myself reflecting on everything I’ve done in these thirty days. I turned twenty-two; I finished my revisions on my book and I’ve prepared it to be sent out to my betas come October; I did a hell of a lot of researching when it came to self-publishing; I wrote, filmed, and edited a ton of videos for my upcoming YouTube/blogging series “31 Days of NaNoWriMo Prep”; and I started my senior year of college. Phew. That’s more than I’ve done… Well, ever, if I’m being completely honest. Productivity has never really been my forte.
I’ve been thinking about a certain question a lot, but today for some reason the answer hit me like a sack of bricks. The question is this: When did I decide that I wanted to be a writer? I mean, authors always seem to have that one spark of inspiration that started it all for them. They can identify a very specific novel or story they read that made them go “Wow, this is what I want to do.” For me, though? Not so much.