For as long as I can remember, I have loved words. So much so that at the age of six, I taught myself how to read. I soon devoured every age-appropriate book in the house. Later that year, I started homeschooling and learned to write. And I have never stopped since. My single page story assignments always turned into whimsical novellas, which my poor mother (very much not a fantasy person) was left to grade.
Around the age of 11, I had run out of books to read, especially fantasy books. I grew up in the jungles of Thailand, so libraries were sadly not an option. One day, out on a family walk, my brother and I crafted a story set in a world of colorful wizards that lived in tree stumps. Up to this point, my brother and I had collaborated on several school assignments, but had never ventured further into writing for ourselves. We sat down and began to draw pictures and maps for the new world we had created. Without a plot or character arcs, I threw myself into writing an epic novel. My brother would read (and edit) over my shoulder as I wrote. I finished the novel at roughly around 200,000 words. I pray the original manuscript never sees the light of day. But for a nine-year-old and an eleven-year-old, our novel was the most epic thing we had ever experienced. Fueled by our success, our world quickly expanded. We drew a map around 3x4 feet, wrote binders full of essays, filled folders with drawings, crafted several languages, and started several new stories. We kept this up all throughout highschool.
When I left Thailand and moved to America for further schooling, I took my maps, some folders, and all of my digital work with me, not really intending to pick it up again. But my stories would not leave me, especially one I had just finished before graduating — "Peace Weaver". I had abandoned my other stories riddled with plot holes and poor character development, but the potential of "Peace Weaver" kept nagging at me. During my summers, I picked up my computer and began to edit again. I would then let the story sit while I was back at school.
It wasn't until last summer, when a coworker tricked me into pinky promising her to publish my book "Peace Weaver" that I realized publishing was an achievable goal. I had had my doubts about indie publishing, since I had not heard much about it growing up. But I had made a promise. I also thought, "why not?". Besides a lot of money, I had nothing to lose. So I set out to do it, taking my book seriously for the first time. It wasn't easy. Growing a social media presence, networking, trying to to get scammed, were all things that had me way out of my depth. But when I hold my book in my hands, no matter what everyone else may think of it, I know it will be the culmination of my childhood, a dream I did not dare to dream until a year ago.
Until then, I keep writing. New books, but also salvaging some of those first books that still have sparks of potential. And I keep growing in the craft. I know I will only get better. I can't stop writing and I don't want to anymore. I can't wait to see where it goes.
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