When I was four years old I wrote my first book. It was a six-page picture book called "Slithery the Snail." The pictures led me no where, to this day I can scarcely manage a rouge sketch when I design clothes, but the writing continued to evolve.
From that day I knew what I wanted to be, though now it would seem I have strayed pretty far from that path. It would seem so, but I have not. Writing is my dream, my fantasy, how I would spend every day if I could. That wouldn't work though, the abstract thoughts of a shut-in are rarely in print. Even more seldom are they in print before the writer's death.
I am still unpublished, but not for lack of trying. Over the years I have piled up quite a few rejection notices, but I know what talent I have and keep trying. I used to take Creative Writing classes for an ego boost, there's a yes for me out there somewhere.
Recently I came to realize that I am a stage of writing. This is the material-gathering portion, a piece rarely discussed in the fiction world. My life, at times, is worse than anyone could imagine. However, it is almost never boring. There has not been a moment in the past year and a half that I have not felt love, hate, joy, fear, sorrow, or some other intense emotion. My experiences are piling up and by the time I'm finished with the this escapade, I'll have enough to write about for years to come.
There are millions of stories I could write with what I already have, but my job gives me no time. For now, I watch and think and wait. Later I will spin these threads and pieces of tall-tales into stunning tapestries of poetry and prose.
When I ran out of life to draw from, my world got raped and ravaged. My material, now, is limitless. I can do what I dreamed of doing now, but I have to wait.