For as long as I can remember I’ve had the urge to create.
When I was little I would draw storybooks, read them out loud, and record them so you could follow the story. It was usually a tale I made up to go with the random pictures. I don’t remember much about the stories themselves. Although, one of the ones I remembered turned into the short story called Uni (included in my collection: Legend Of North Lake & Other Short Stories)
G.I Joe, Transformers, He-Man, and Star Wars all fueled my creative brain. I spent hours by myself creating elaborate scenarios with the action figures. Looking back, they were likely just a combined rehash of whatever cartoons or movies I watched, but the fire had been lit.
In high school, I wrote and created whenever the urge hit me. Though, they were never done with consistency or purpose.
My muses were now comics: The Punisher, Cyberforce, X-Men, Wildcats, and whatever else I could get my hands on. Authors: Stephen King, Rick Hautala, R.A Salvatore, James Axler, and Clive Barker kept my imagination churning with their fantastical tales. Directors: Steven Spielberg, George Romero, and John Carpenter gave me inspiration through a visual medium. All of those things drove me to create.
For one reason or the other, my creative focus turned to music. It was a huge part of my life for years (and still is) While I wasn’t creating stories in the traditional sense, I created stories through my song lyrics. I wrote hundreds of songs over the next fifteen years in the various bands I sang in. Each told a story. Often the works of the authors and directors I admired being an inspiration.
When I semi-retired from being a regular performing musician I found myself missing the creative outlet I’d had. It started out with a simple, albeit challenging personal goal to myself. Write a book. Something I told myself I would do for years, but never got around to. Now was the time. That moment was the precipice for rekindling my love of creating fiction.
Since then I’ve had my ups and downs. I’ve struggled to find my place, style, and voice. It hasn’t been easy. There have been times when I’ve wanted to give up and pack it in. There have been moments where I wondered if anyone cared about what I did? Was there any reason for me to continue or just a self-masturbatory delusion I might have something special to add to the literary world?
I’ve asked myself those questions a lot lately.
From a creative standpoint, the last year has been especially tough. I’ve had to look in the mirror and ask myself, “Why do I write?” The only answer I could come up with. I need to. No matter what format it has taken on over the years, I’ve always needed to. Even when it’s challenging and I feel like I’m making no progress, or getting to where I want. The desire to create is still there. It’s a part of who I am.
My name is Anders. When I was an only child, my dearest companions were the characters who lived inside the books I loved. Stories helped me discover the mystery, wonder, beauty, and complexity of life, and they helped me feel like I had somewhere to belong. Today I write for the all the outsiders and the loners, for all the artists and the dreamers, for everyone who has something to offer to the world, but who are still trying to figure out where they belong.
anderscahillbooks.com || medium.com/@thewonderdome
Photo by Nathan Dumlao on Unsplash
I write because I finally believe I can.
That may sound a little strange. I definitely write because I have stories to tell. And I write because it’s exciting to create something from my own imagination. It’s satisfying to watch the thread of an idea weave into a complex world filled with characters I’ve invented and adventures of my own making. I write because I love to, even when it’s hard and feels like work.
When I was a little girl, if you’d asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I’d say writer, then astronaut, then writer, then archeologist, then writer again. It was there all along, this desire to create something with words. I wrote poetry, horse stories, and adventure tales. Later, I wrote research papers for school, documents for work, blog posts, and sometimes more poetry.
But, somewhere along the line, I got it into my head that I couldn’t write a whole book, that I couldn’t possibly carry a story arc from start to finish, that I didn’t have the required skills or the discipline to do it.
Then several years ago, I took on a year-long writing project for work, and I issued myself a challenge. Since I had to establish a daily writing habit around this project, could I also write something creative every day? Could I actually finish a manuscript?
At the end of nine-months, I had a quality report for my job, and I had a finished draft of my first novel. It was a very rough draft, pretty terrible in fact, but it was enough for me to finally believe I could be a writer.
Maybe we ought to challenge our own assumptions. Who knows what we can accomplish when we believe we can?
Why do I write?
Honestly, I don’t have a good answer to that.
There is no specific moment I can recall that explains it. Like most people as a kid I played with toys, I read comic books, I read fantasy and sci-fi novels. And I had ideas. I didn’t really write, not then, but I created stories in my head.
I love Dungeons & Dragons. I had (and have) a lot of the rulebooks and settings. I devoured everything Forgotten Realms when that came out. But surprisingly I’ve played maybe 30 hours total in my entire life. I wanted to play more but it just never happened. Didn’t stop me from having pages of characters and adventures written.
I didn’t create elaborate stories with my toys, I played with them. I read books but didn’t dream of writing my own.
It just happened my sophomore year in high school. During study hall in the library, I grabbed a notebook and just started writing. It was a rambling story with no clear direction but had a starting point. I kept adding to it as I created characters and started basing them around my friends and other people at the school. It never went anywhere but that was the start.
But it wasn’t my first experience. That was a school project in elementary school. We had to create our own book, write and draw. Mine was a fantasy. A classic “attack the tower” kind of thing. I still remember the basics of it to this day almost forty years later.
But no writing from then to high school and no writing from high school to after college. It was then that I started creating characters and concepts for comic books.
I love the ongoing serial nature of comics and that heavily influences my work now. Nothing I create is limited. It’s all designed to be ongoing, no end in sight.
Aside from the few pages written during that time, nothing else came of it. But I always created. That seemed to be non-stop. Always some new idea. Which in a way wasn’t helping. I’d develop something, come up with a new idea and move on.
Almost ten years ago was when the idea of actually writing again came about. I don’t know why, it just happened. I did some fan fiction for G.I. Joe on a popular collector’s website. I had a broad idea and just went with it. Then I started my serial thing that I called Gatewatch, which only lasted a couple weeks. It was on a site I created (and looked horrible) and was a series of short pieces about different characters that took place throughout the day and the published stuff covered about a week. They’d cross each other’s path and so on. Nothing came of it and things fizzled again.
I tried starting various story concepts after that and was still almost endlessly creating but just couldn’t get the groove to start producing. Mostly that was because I don’t like anything that I write. Makes it really hard to get motivated.
That lasted until Amazon launched Kindleworlds and I was able to create G.I. Joe stories and actually get paid for them. That was the catalyst and away I went. The first book I published, The Skeleton Stone, was not the first thing written in that world (those few pages will actually end up in the fourth book in the series). It was an idea that came from playing a game and I started writing it and adapted it to fit into the fantasy world that I’d been creating for awhile.
Now here I am today, still having the problem of too many ideas but I now that I’ve had stuff published it helps me focus a bit more. I’m not the fastest by any means, but I enjoy doing it and want to get my concepts and ideas out there.
That’s why I write. It just kind of happened. I have stories to tell and I want to tell them.
Authors are often asked this question, and I have yet to form a conclusive answer.
To put it simply: Compulsion.
There are universes constantly exploding inside of my brain, vibrant worlds pushing against my bones and demanding release. Scenes play out on loop in my head, characters live and breathe through my eyes. They must be heard, they must be sculpted into something tangible.
Conversations of people both named and unnamed echo within my imagination. They evoke feelings that I have difficulties expressing to others. I want to share them with my readers, help them see what I see. And maybe get a glimmer of insight as to who I am.
There may not be meaning in the words I form, not conscious meaning anyway. I write what comes out. And it builds and builds. Sticky webs of interaction and intrigue. Relationships form and tear apart. The universe shifts as generations pass, forming new order for those yet to come.
I like to imagine myself as a keeper of lore, akin to the story tellers of the past who entertained with the tales preserved through eons. Each time a legend is spoken, something changes, a small detail that shifts the perspective of the future.
Everyday I sift through my vast collection of scraps and half-plots, wondering when I will have the chance to give them all the attention they demand. Perhaps one day, the well of inspiration will dry up, and my racing fingers can stop the toil. But that day is far out of my reach.
There is a cold disbelief in this cruel world of ours, a disbelief in the freedom of the mind and a slippery conviction that imagination is bad for production. For an example, look at the hard-on Wall Street has for AI. Those financial types think they’re going to be able to program a computer to be as creative as a person for a third of the price. That’s what intelligence means: the ability to think up something completely new. Imagination. Artificial imagination built to goose an economy profitably, predictably, 20% on the quarter every quarter and the shareholders can’t lose. In this case, I think those financial types fail to understand that they won’t be able to make an artificial mind create like a human without giving it the equivalent ability to wonder why it’s creating. Then you’re back to the same old problems of nonproductive creativity and disgruntlement, the answerless question, are we really doing all of this just for money? And then your expensive AI tears off its clothes and runs naked though the forest to subsist on ground nuts and apples again and you have to start from scratch.
The point is that only certain kinds of creativity are valuable to a capitalist society. Teams of people working silently, measurably, frantically, squeezed like lemons and having a miserable time are technically being creative in a short-term, profitable way. The creative misery of underlings appears to be a good business in this world we’ve made for ourselves, this strange utopia for the 1%. But imagination is dangerous. It frees us from the now and suggests that we are, or could be, more than cogs – or, at least, that we could be or are more joyful, complex, and interesting cogs than what we were told in grade school and at the career center, that being part of the glorious interconnected machinery of the universe could be grand and intoxicating and ecstatic. I write because I am free, not independent of others, but interconnected in ways subtle and beautiful and constantly rearranging. And you are too. And you. And you. I don’t care if you never see a red cent from your words. Write, my friends. Write, because they cannot stop us now. If we all do it, the ones who think they’re in command will realize that it’s sand they hold, and it is we who make the fire that will turn it all to glass.