Wednesday, March 16, 2011

All Those Unfinished Books

A few years ago, four I believe, I decided to be a writer. It was most likely inspired by my brother Thomas writing a book.

My first book was three chapters long, thirteen pages. It was the dumbest book in the universe, and I spent absolutely no time on it. But I was only eight.

I probably started about twenty books, got a page or two into them, and deleted them. A couple of years ago, I got extremely far in a fantasy, 125 pages. And then I accidentally deleted it. I moped for a few days, vowing to myself to not write for months, and then went back on my starting a new book every other day pattern.

Summer before last, I read all of the Narnia books. And, as it was with so many of the others, I started a new book, where two kids find a secret passage and a secret world and all that jazz. A few pages into it, Thomas asked me what the genre was. I asked him, as I always did, what a genre was. (Come on, I was only like 10.) And he said it was what kind of book, mystery, fantasy, the lot. And in my mind, and idea triggered. 'Mystery,' I said. 'What kind of mystery?' he asked. I didn't know what he meant. He said, 'You know, abduction, murder, thievery...?' Another idea. 'Abduction,' I said.

I got about 115 pages in. Then I decided to start over, on my 750 words. Two, three pages a day, it'd be great. And that's where I am now. Except I haven't written in a week because of my hand. I can still type obviously, but it's a pain.

Just thought I'd write about it so that all my millions of readers would be encouraged to write more. Not really. 

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