Why I Write J Vincent

I’m told I was a story teller from my youngest years. I wrote stories as soon as I gained the ability to print. (My cursive is nearly illegible it’s a very good thing computers came along!) I wrote stories for assignments all through grade to college. I also made up stories for my younger siblings who believed I was far better at it than an English teacher I had in college. She gave me a “C-“ on a story and told me I was not meant to be a writer. She influenced me more than she ever knew but only in that as a teacher I never told a student what they shouldn’t or couldn’t achieve—but that is another topic altogether.

Why did I start writing as in writing a book length story? I believe I was led to it as a saving grace and a blessing. I used to find January-March very depressing and the myriad of emotions following my father’s death made it worse that long ago year. My husband entreated me to read to divert myself. I invaded the nearest public library branch, at that time the South Seneca branch which some of you may recall was quite small, and inhaled every historical and mystery it had. The reading helped but also provoked people who had evidently lurked quite peacefully in the recesses of my mind to make their presence known and over time, to become vociferous.
The voices were an organized bunch and came up with heros and villians, a plot line, a setting, and everything inbetween. How was I to resist? I decided the only way to get them to lurk once more was to write down this story they kept whispering in my head. And so I began to write. Once that book was finished the voices didn’t quiet down, they just changed into different people with different plots and different settings. What could I do? Write, of course.

Way back then I worried. First, whether or not the voices were normal. When I decided I didn’t care, I still worried and still do come to that. Not that I was crazy which would be more normal, but whether or not they would go away. In my wacky head this leads to goals. For most of the summer and fall doing anything was a struggle much less writing anything cohesive. A lethargy more severe than anything I’ve ever expierenced combined with other medical maladies made it impossible to think. In fact at one point I wondered if I had the beginnings of Alzheimer’s. It was my mention of that fear that triggered extensive blood work which finally uncovered the medical culprit. I’m not back where I want to be energywise etc but at least I can remember characters names and have a building desire to return to writing. Those voices again. Those three outlined plots. That unfinished series.

No lofty goals this year. Just one. Redevelop the writing discipline. In other words BIC HOK (Butt in Chair Hands on Keyboard).
May all of you reach your goals this year!