A little history about my writing experience:
Before I learned to read, I used to go with my mom to The Bookworm, a small used book store in my hometown. I would always get a handful of used comic books, and she would get a paper grocery bag full of romance novels. Those would last her about two weeks, and then we would go back and trade in our previous spoils for new books and comics. I couldn’t read my comics, but I would look at the panels and create in my imagination the story I thought the panels were telling. When my mom would read my comics to me, I always felt a sense of pride when the story would parallel my own imagined version.
When I learned to read in the first grade, I read any of the primer books I could get my hands on. By second grade, I had moved on to young science fiction novels, like Isaac Asimov’s Lucky Starr Series, and by third, I was reading adult novels, mostly sci-fi, fantasy, and horror. I still read and collected comics, but those didn’t take me long finish, so I would get my fix on the fantastic and heroic by reading novels and short stories. I was constantly in search of a hero I could idolize, a fantastic idea I could use to fuel my imagination, and an adventure to glue them together. When I wasn’t reading I was outside creating my own heroes and adventures, or inside creating those adventures with an endless supply of G.I. Joes, Ninja Turtles, and Transformers.
As I got older, the stories I read, though still a passion of mine, didn’t satisfy me as they did before, so I started writing my own short stories (and a few poems but mostly to impress girls). I was always afraid that my stories weren’t up to par, and in all fairness, they weren’t. I decided that my stories were for my personal gratification, and I never showed them to anyone. When I turned 16 I wrote my first attempt at a novel. It was a cheesy sci-fi epic about robots and sexy alien women (16 year old male with hormones, do the math). It was awful, but I felt accomplished. I had finished a novel, though I’m not sure now what the actual word count was and my bet would be that it was shy 40,000 words or so from mainstream. Nevertheless, it was a feat to be proud of, and I was beaming. When I read my imagined masterpiece, I realized it was awful and that no one should ever have to endure reading it no matter how much they loved me or how related they were to me. I hide my manuscript and grew a little discouraged.
I still wrote a few short stories after that, but my heart wasn’t in them like they used to be. It wasn’t until I had taken a few writing classes at UCA (University of Central Arkansas) and received high grades in my writing classes and teacher and peer compliments that I found the motivation to attempt another novel.
I was 20 years old and married when I sat down to my shiny new Mac and started writing. My wife, then, would rather spend time with her friends than with me, so I had a lot of time to myself. I used that time to write. I plowed through the first draft in about 6 weeks. It was another science fiction novel about cybernetic futuristic warfare. When I read over it this time I was proud. I held it gingerly, like it was an ancient piece of parchment that might fall apart in my hands. I couldn’t believe that I had written something that I actually wanted other people to read. I made some revisions and saved everything on my computer and printed a copy to put in my filing cabinet.
Taking the advice of so many authors, I decided to take a break from my manuscript and come back to it later for the first major revision. A week or so had gone by when I woke up to the smell of smoke and the screeching of the alarm clock next to the bed. The wall closest to my side of the bed was engulfed in flames, and smoke was rapidly filling the small bedroom. I grabbed the first pair of pants I saw, which were my wife’s—not mine, and followed her out the front door. The house went up in less than 20 minutes, and inside the only copies of my manuscript burned as well. I went into a complete state of shock and became utterly disappointed that I had failed again.
Life got really hard for me after the fire and I lost the motivation to do much of anything. I stopped dreaming and started working. I spent all my time working and pushing my dreams to the side. My wife spent all her time with friends and various other pursuits, and I didn’t care enough to get out of the marriage. I was depressed for a few years after the fire for a lot of different reasons.
I’m 28 now, and I’ve got smoke alarms in the house and my home owner’s insurance is current. I’m a Systems Administrator for a utility company, and have learned the importance of having backups for my backups in multiple locations. I divorced the wife mentioned earlier a few years ago, and I am, now, happily married to the woman that I wish I would have waited for the first time I decided to marry. I’ve started reading a lot more and my genre of choice has changed. I read more paranormal fiction than anything else, and it spans multiple genres, so I find it where I can. I decided about 9 months ago that I wanted to give writing another chance, so I started preparing. I now have a man cave, that is for me to get away in, and inside of the man cave is an office, my own personal writing lair. I have my wife to thank for making it all possible and supporting me in pursuit of my impossible dreams. I love her more for it every day, and hope that I can do the same to help her to achieve her dreams, as well.
Now that everything is in place, I just want to say that I’ve started writing and dreaming again. I hope it’s true what they say about the third time being a charm.
–Jerry
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Nickelback Album:
All the Right Reasons Song:
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. They are all excellent books about the writing process. If you’re interested check them out at 
