Journals Galore – The Very Beginning

One YA Author’s Journey to Publication

Having made a plethora of author friends online, I have realized that there are as many roads to publication as there are published books. I don’t think there is a “right way” to do things, though I would encourage any writer aspiring to join the ranks of the published to write as much as possible, not be emotional about revision (i.e. tearing your baby to shreds), research your genre, and spend a whole lot of time trying to hook an agent. I’ll post more about snagging that dream agent later. For now, I’m at the beginning of my journey. And that means FAR from my first amazing call with Alyssa.

Since I was a child, I have been obsessed with books. All books. Almost to the point of embarrassment. When I’m in public, if I see someone with a book in their hand, I will contort my body into uncomfortable positions just to get a flash of the title running down the book’s spine, to catch a glimpse of the design on the book’s cover. I want to see if I recognize the book, if I’ve read it, or if it looks like something I’ll need to get my hands on.

I have loved writing as much and long as I have loved reading. The problem in the beginning (and the middle, and even a little lately) has been my intense fear of sharing my work. Example? When I was a sophomore in high school, I completed all the assignments for this major poetry assignment and didn’t turn one in. I was terrified of someone else reading what I had written and thinking it was worthless.

Since I refused to allow anyone to read anything I had written, the most important aspect of my early writing was the complete privacy that journaling offered. I poured my thoughts into the pages of journals all through high school and college. I drew in them and taped pictures in them and wrote the lyrics to my favorite songs. And sometimes, when the inspiration struck, I would write a poem or a short story. But never, ever, did I share.

Now I reveal to you the start of my writing career, my journals, which catalogue all the embarrassing ups and downs of my life. I hardly ever break them out, and have not cracked one open in years. Maybe one of these days I’ll have the courage to revisit some of the awkward moments of my past. Maybe I’ll even find inspiration for a novel in these pages. For now, they stay closed, and as soon as I snap a shot of their tattered beauty, I will tuck them back into the dark, quiet safety of my dresser drawers.