Suddenly, under the age of 10, I claim that I was hit with writer’s block. With it, my ideas for stories disappeared. I could not imagine the crazy villains. I could not imagine heroines—my sister and me always. I could not imagine the plots, the other characters, or the settings. All of it was gone.
I wanted to be in yearbook and the school newspaper. Rejected. I started my own creative writing club, but I only had one class, because I didn’t know what to do. I did many things to overcome the writer’s block. But all I could do was write sparingly in my diary about what was going going in my life—what I hated, what I loved, what annoyed me.
Then when I was 18, I started writing again. Moreover in the form of blogging. It was read. I was validated! But I still wrote more personal essay shorts. More memoir type things. It was always about me. Then I participated in Nanowrimo. But I just used it to write a memoir. So I didn’t really reach my goal, but I wrote my entire life up until the age of 21. It was full of boys. I wrote in a xanga that my friend had spammed across the comments. I wrote long stories and garnered a legion of fans. They loved me for my insights. But then I hated it.
Then when I was 29, I decided this was the time. Someone gave me a prompt.