As I began to write, I didn’t think of myself as a writer or an author whatsoever. I was writing stuff… I was writing and writing and to be honest I lost myself in the stories I was creating.
The weekends became a blur and before I knew it, it was Monday and back to work.
Time flew by and the pages filled with words…
This was not easy, I would spend all day at my desk. Every waking minute spent not writing was a waste. I wanted to take breaks but my mind would not let me.
From 8 am to 3 and sometimes 4 pm, I would be writing and pounding away at the keyboard of my laptop. The weekends were a sprint within the marathon of writing my books. The stories and the dialogue came quite easily. Not easy but easier than I thought it would when I first sat down to write.
I took all the things that were happening around me in a teenager’s life and piled them into this book.
I had plenty of experience with kids. Being a single dad for 10 years will do that to you. Putting myself inside my kid’s shoes and thinking how they may react to things was fun.
One boy, one girl to raise gave me plenty of experience to relate to the made-up characters. I had some crazy chapter names like “Saved by ice cream.” “Here comes the slut” and so on. I was having so much fun with the book and began to love the process.
My way of writing feels like I am a storyteller. As if I could sit with you and tell you this story. I am still unsure if I would consider myself an author. I still feel I am telling a story and involving these characters I came up with. All the while telling to about their lives and the drama I am spinning around them.
But this was not all fun and games…
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