I suppose a compelling and important reason some of you may continue to read this blog is less because of any potential story I may write (I’m essentially no different than any other wannabe-writer, in that sense) but rather who I am and what I bring to the table that other bloggers/writers don’t.

As such, I should probably spell out, at least a little bit, who I believe myself to be.

An important aspect in who I’ve become and where I yet have to go, perhaps the most important aspect, is that I grew up on a small, quiet island on the west coast of Canada and, as such, led a very free childhood, safe from many of the dangers of living in a city.

This freedom was integral in letting my imagination grow and flourish as a young child. I spent countless afternoons lost in the wild ravages of the forest that borders my backyard (much smaller now than I remember it, and occupied by several houses) – slaying monsters, being a cop… being a robber, piloting a spaceship (and let me tell you, it takes one heck on an imagination to turn a living forest into the cockpit of an interstellar cruiser!) and anything else that popped up in the novels I was reading.

And there it is, reading, the driving force behind much of my childhood. Ever since I can remember, I’ve had a book in my hand. Usually fiction, sometimes not. Through the early years of my schooling I would often get in trouble for, get this… reading above my age level. I had one teacher in particular who contacted my parents with concerns that I wasn’t developing properly because I was reading “chapter books” instead of picture books like the rest of my classmates.

I’m still trying to figure out how this is a bad thing, but apparently it was. It didn’t stop me from reading, though.

Tom Swift. Jurassic Park. Congo. The Hardy Brothers. Encyclopedia Brown. Goosebumps.

Whatever I could get my hands on, I would read. Hell, in Grade 4, during class discussion on whatever novel we were supposed to be reading, I’d have one eye on Jurassic Park and the other on the class. My teachers didn’t like it, but I suppose there are worse sins in school than reading too much.

You’ll notice that the list of novels up there might seem a little odd for an aspiring fantasy novelist. There’s no fantasy. In fact, as a little kid I had a irrational dislike for the fantasy genre. I had made up my little mind that Fantasy was prissy. Nothing but Unicorns, princesses and Faeries. Not nearly as interesting as laser guns, dinosaurs and murders.

I was happily ignorant until about the age of 11 when I finally discovered The Hobbit and realized how much I was missing. I dove into Tolkien’s world and haven’t looked back since. I still feel like I haven’t explored even a smidgen of what the Fantasy (and really the speculative fiction genre as a whole) has to offer. But I’m damn determined to remedy that.

High School came and went and I could generally be found with my nose buried in a novel (in and out of class), but somehow still managed to avoid being typecast as a nerd. Writing had always been important to me throughout elementary school – I still remember writing my first story, it was about a caterpillar. Another one that sticks out in my mind is the story of a hedgehog who lived on Mt. Olympus… ahh, the mind and imagination child never fails to impress! – but it was in high school, and one teacher in particular, that really helped me discover that writing was what I wanted to do with my life.

Unlike many teachers in the school system, Mrs. Miller wanted me to succeed. She pushed me and encouraged me and helped me believe I really could be a writer. I learned a couple of years later that she often mentions me to her new classes, saying I was one of the best writers she’s ever taught.

Haughty words, and I’m not sure whether I believe them or not, but it shows that she believed in me and that, in my mind, is the most important thing in the world.

Belief in yourself as a writer and belief in the story your writing are, to my mind, the only essential tools a writer needs. The words will come, you just have to be confident enough to listen for them.

This lust for writing has continued to grow and that is where you find me now, writing and conceptualizing, meeting characters and dreaming, scratching out any piece of spare time in which to write. Is it time well spent? I dunno and probably won’t know until I’m a feeble old man, sitting at a desk, pen in hand, scribbling a story for the enjoyment of myself and, hopefully, a cadre of others.