Where did this—me as writer—business come from?
I’m not talking about my putting scattered words on a page, some cleverness, parodies…of songs, or the blocking, work and plans as they pertain to the theater and life. What I put together is not the day to day of my moments or the business of a career. This story I made up about someone else’s life, a fiction—that is being published as a book…
I don’t remember making a plan to write a book or even imagining myself as a writer. This story was born as a—thank you—which turned into epic, then, after many years of pushing too many words around too many pages, out came—Diamond Stars.
OK—make a list. The writing began with A-B-C, then into words, copied sentences for school, progressing to that first original thought on a birthday card. Teachers forced me to write, enjoyment was found in the clandestine notes I passed when those teachers weren't looking. The scribbles turned silly and ideas transformed into plans for clubs and ways to play and more and—well…Next...notes became letters, for friends and friends became—different and more than—endearments emerged. Love. Poems. And so on and…such. The acting, directing, plays, reading and—out comes a book—an author is born.
If that’s all it takes, everyone could write one…hey, maybe everyone is!
I guess, for me, when I think back to the beginning—it was always about cardboard…
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I’m not talking about my putting scattered words on a page, some cleverness, parodies…of songs, or the blocking, work and plans as they pertain to the theater and life. What I put together is not the day to day of my moments or the business of a career. This story I made up about someone else’s life, a fiction—that is being published as a book…
I don’t remember making a plan to write a book or even imagining myself as a writer. This story was born as a—thank you—which turned into epic, then, after many years of pushing too many words around too many pages, out came—Diamond Stars.
OK—make a list. The writing began with A-B-C, then into words, copied sentences for school, progressing to that first original thought on a birthday card. Teachers forced me to write, enjoyment was found in the clandestine notes I passed when those teachers weren't looking. The scribbles turned silly and ideas transformed into plans for clubs and ways to play and more and—well…Next...notes became letters, for friends and friends became—different and more than—endearments emerged. Love. Poems. And so on and…such. The acting, directing, plays, reading and—out comes a book—an author is born.
If that’s all it takes, everyone could write one…hey, maybe everyone is!
I guess, for me, when I think back to the beginning—it was always about cardboard…
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