Once upon a time a little girl wrote a story…

When I was about nine or ten years old I began to write a story. It was your typical kid fantasy kind of story, with wizards and ogres and castles and magic, and two small goblin brothers, the unlikeliest of heroes, plucked from obscurity to embark on some dangerous and valiant quest. Little did I know back then that my idea, my story, wouldn’t be forgotten about or pushed aside for the latest thing that grabbed my attention. No Pokemon nor Dragonball Z could deter me from keeping this tale alive. No obsession for monthly James Bond magazines and spy gadgets, nor my complete immersion in the Star Wars universe, or any other craze that became the epitome of all I thought about, could cast it to the wayside. Somehow that little story about the goblins in the mine, plotting their hairy and daring escape, managed to stay tucked away on my computer, safe for me to revisit later in life when I could actually spell and understand the concept of developing a fully fledged novel.

I can still remember the first line I wrote in my youth, and how outlandishly cartoonish I wrote my characters to be. I remember how my story grew with me. How when looking back on the different chapters I could tell roughly what phase of my life I was in when I wrote it. Mind you, the story has since gone under many re-writes to satisfy my growing understanding of writing and maturing outlook on every single issue the story portrays.

So there’s probably nothing left of my nine-year old self in the story, not counting the silly little quips between the main characters that kind of make me giggle as if I were nine years old again. If I had had the grand gift of foresight back then, I never would have guessed that my silly little story would grow into the 125,000 word (and still counting) monster it would be today. That ten years later I’d be investing more and more of my time into writing it, and hopefully finishing it by the end of the year. I can just imagine the immense satisfaction I will feel when it is complete. That is, of course, if I am ever happy with it. I’ve just finished outlining an entire rewrite of one fairly substantial character, but I will keep the original, you know, just in case I change my mind…

In some ways I suppose writing this book has been the perfect reflection of me: very indecisive, always changing my mind, and highly unmotivated to get anything done! But when I do finish it, and I will, I’ll perhaps wonder what my nine-year old self would think reading it, and if she’d like it…I guess it doesn’t really matter, the book’s probably too violent for a nine-year old now.

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