Well, its been several years of me going back and forth about what I thought about myself as a writer... I've come to this conclusion; I'm not that good, but I can be entertaining.
In the past, I would have never even considered publication. Lately, I've come to realize that it's not that big of a deal. Traditional publishing is cool and all, but then you realize that a series of books and movies exist because of short stories published on a fan fiction site. I'm not a fan of those books, but that isn't relevant. They exist and are successful, through--initially--non-traditional publishing.
My goal is to write and get good at it. It is a hobby to me, that started out as a way to keep track of the wild ass dreams that I seem to have. I have role-playing scenarios, short stories--some complete, some not so complete--and journals full of random ideas for stories. I have finally decided to do something with them, if only for the entertainment of my friends and family.
I remember the first dream I ever woke up from and wrote down. In the dream, I was riding in a car with a person that I knew, but could not identify. Something would always block my view. Whether it was sun in my eyes, the person turning their head, or whatever... I couldn't see them or recognize their voice. On the radio, a song was playing. It was familiar to me, but I could not place the name of it or hum the tune. As we travel through my home town, the driver loses control of the vehicle.
I die in the wreck. Everything goes black. I'm not sure if the driver dies, but I definitely do.
The next thing I see is my funeral. I'm floating above the podium, and I can see the people attending... It was everyone I had ever met in my life (up to that point). Each person took a turn coming up and saying something about me... I don't know the exact words. Some things were nice and flattering, others not so much.
At the end, everyone left as my casket was being lowered into the ground and covered with a sandy, red dirt that was common to the area. Everything goes black.
And then I woke up.
Now, as you can imagine, this dream bothered me for a long time. It was reoccurring every night for about eight years. It was spooky and I wouldn't let people drive me anyplace for the longest time. One morning, I figured it had gone on long enough, so I wrote it down.
I never had that dream again.
I guess that it was that day--March 11, 1993--I became a writer. In my mind at least.
That is why I want to write and get better. My mind is always doing something weird and I have all of these ideas that will be lost when I'm gone. That may sound vain, but I don't want them to go away. If that dream taught me anything, it's that my mortality is inevitable. As a young man, I refused to believe that... and my actions reflected that mindset.
Now, as an "adult", I feel like I have things to say and interests that I'd like to share. So, I'm on the road to published, and I'm excited.