“Writers are made, not born. To be exact, writers are self-made.”
-Ayn Rand

Many authors have their own reasons behind why and what they write. Some want to change the world, become famous, write a masterpiece or simply tell a story. As for me, I don’t exactly know what my motivations are. Sometimes I feel I will write a masterpiece or put forth a brand new idea and become highly acclaimed. It could be through stubbornness and competition that I picked up the pen, or perhaps to make my parents proud or stand among the writers I admire; maybe I just want to have my name in print, something that will last beyond my lifetime. Despite my lack of knowledge in why, something I have known for a long time is that I would devote my life to writing, no matter the outcome.

When I was a young girl, I became obsessed with a certain book series named Artemis Fowl by Eoin Colfer. I remember the day I bought it, a small memory encouraging me to physically climb up the shelves straight to the top in the middle of the bookstore where I clutched my small digits around a book that looked like a golden metal door. It revolved around the book’s titular character, a wealthy twelve-year old genius and criminal mastermind. Smart, emotionally-deficient and dangerous, he was my first love. The books were all about his technology-fueled adventures with a subterranean fairy race – intelligent, gun-toting, witty-one-liner-producing fairies. Obsessed is perhaps not enough to describe my intense infatuation with this narrative.

Much like some kind of crazy fan-girl – which I was – my hours on the computer were spent looking up fan art and other dalliances surrounding the series. One day I found a picture of Holly, the driven, tomboyish elf that Artemis kidnapped in the first book. She was sitting in front of a Christmas tree hiding a small package behind her back, a coy smile playing on her face. The present was for Artemis obviously, because in my little eleven-year-old mind and in the minds of many other fans, Artemis and Holly were, like, the cutest couple ever. This was the picture that inspired me to write my very first story.

I was sure it was a masterpiece. I even threw in some characters I had created myself – Artemis’ two hilarious and equally talented cousins. I was so proud of it that one day I read it aloud to my own cousin, who rolled on my bed, screaming in pain and covering his ears as if they would bleed. I thought he was joking.

He wasn't.

It wasn't long before I stumbled upon my saving grace, a little website named fanfiction.com, where I posted my story and promptly received some criticism, a dash of hate, general encouragement and big slice of humble pie. I was crushed. But more importantly, I was determined. Determined to show those people behind the lighted screen that I could be good at writing – no, that I could be great at writing.
I like to think that the fact that I spent the next four years of my life dedicated to writing is a show of my resilience. In the end, I know I’m just stubborn. But the important thing was that I realized what my passion in life would be. All it took was a moment of embarrassment to fuel a lifetime of hard work and commitment.

In the years that followed I threw myself into my work and met a network of other writers. Most of them were a bit older than I was, but we all helped edit and critique each other’s work. Eventually I graduated from horrid short stories to still somewhat gag-worthy long fictions, which are, surprisingly enough, still being read and commented on today. It wasn’t long before I decided to make my own characters, shaped by long role-playing sessions with my friends. After experimenting with these characters for a time, I got it in my head that I could write a book with them, though it wasn’t exactly my idea first.

The biggest thing about Christmas 2007 was my first laptop. I proudly paraded that clunky, heavy piece of machinery in front of my godparents, though back then it was top-notch. I don’t really remember who suggested that my godmother, Aunt Diane, read a story of mine, but I do remember nervously pacing in my living room while she and my step mother read it. To my surprise, they gushed about the story and I beamed like an idiot.

In the morning my father made me eggs and toast. As I ate my breakfast, I noticed something curious. Dad stood over me like a hawk, almost with a timid look about his face. I told him the eggs were good, since I figured that’s what he was after. My father replied by only inquiring if he could read my story – the one I had showed Aunt Diane. I agreed of course, but was struck by momentary confusion. Why was he so interested? “You know what Auntie Di said yesterday?” He questioned me with a smile. “‘Get a publisher for that kid.’”

I sat there for a space in time, fork hovering above my plate. That was it! That story could easily be turned into a book, I thought. I would write the book and then get it published. What was I waiting for? I would write this book and many other books would follow. I would be a writer – a real writer. All in one moment, from one sentence out of my father’s mouth I had decided that one way or another I would become a published author. It would take years to finish – God, it’s still not completely edited – but it never would have been written if not for the few words of encouragement by my Aunt Diane.

I had always taken books for granted, sometimes eating them up like meals all in one sitting. Little did I know how hard it is to create, compile and edit a novel. They say that a picture is worth a thousand words, but in my opinion it’s easier to paint a picture than find a thousand words.

Still, I must admit the worst part was not writing it, but letting my novel rot on the shelf. Where I once had a network of writing friends, I now had no one interested or motivated to read my narrative. And so it lay to waste in the gutter of my own fear and laziness.

Despite this roadblock, I never lost my passion to work with books. I refused to take up a job unless it was at a bookstore – at Indigo in particular. After much persistence I was offered a job at a small Coles bookstore, where I was able to talk about books with people for a living. It wasn’t much, but every shift left a wide smile on my face, especially on one particular day.

Though I had grown older and had been reading adult fiction for a long time, nothing made me happier than selling the books I had loved in my youth to kids. Finally one day I found the perfect one; a young boy. He excitedly explained to me that he had birthday money from his grandmother and wanted to buy a book. His kind old grandmother leaned over him and said he was a pretty good reader and had even read some teen fiction.

With an inkling of inspiration in my heart, I remember placing the book in his hands. It had been reissued in a new cover, but the memory of the golden door still made me smile. The boy’s face lit up when I told him of a young genius criminal mastermind, who kidnaped a fairy, invented new technology and battled trolls. I will never forget the joy that spread through me when the boy ran down the store’s length to the counter and bought my favourite book. The picture of him carrying it out of the store clutched in his arms will stay with me as long as I live.

Selling books made me further realize why I needed to be a writer. Everything a book had ever made me feel I wanted to inspire in someone else. Despite my doubts over my novel, I decided that I would let publishers and readers alike decide if it was worthy of remembering. Their answer I am still not sure of, but I hope.

All throughout my life I have been inspired to pursue a career in writing. In observing all the reasons of how I started and continued my journey in the world of pen and paper, slowly the reason of why I write is revealed. How much money I make or how acclaimed my novels are, is moot. All that really matters, in the grand scheme of things, is how I make my readers feel. It is and always has been for them.