Re: What was the book that make you want to write?

#21
Die Unendliche Geschichte by Michael Ende. Internationally better known under its English translation The Neverending Story
It was the second proper book I ever read by myself as a child. And reading it was... a bit like lucid dreaming?
I tried to write something myself ever since. First, this was mainly bad poetry. Well, I was a child. ^^ Later I tried to write prose and dreamed up world after world after world. I never really came around to the actual story part though. :D
And every time I tried, I was disillusioned by my own mediocre skill and scrapped projects as fast as I thought up new ones. 
Then went back to reading... lots and lots of reading. I didn't try to write anything new for more than half a decade. Until I got fed up with never finding THE story. So I tried writing again, adding another three or so projects to my 'scrapped ideas' folder. ^^ 
But this time I didn't scrap them because I lacked an actual story but because they were far too ambitious projects for a first genuine try. 
So I thought up a concept in which I could tell a myriad of small stories within the same world with the same protagonist without them necessarily being too much intertwined with each other. And went looking for feedback here instead of just relying on my own unrealistically high expectations. 

Still, despite reading all these books over the years with completely systemised magic and number crunching, this dreamlike approach still stuck with me. 
The process of imagination I mean. Not simply falling back to tropes and paint by numbers. Dreaming up seemingly nonsensical stuff and then considering if and how said stuff could work in my story.

Re: What was the book that make you want to write?

#28
The more I write in my world, the less I care about this one.
When people are screaming about X actress wearing Y dress at Z event, I am riding through the strands of aspens, golden leaves falling around me as the northern winds blow, an edge of cold promising the winter to come.
When people froth at the lips and flop and flail and babble incoherently and make bold declaratives "He's not my president!" I am instead grinning uncertainly and yet defiantly across a shattered pillar at a young dragon as we play a deadly cat-and-mouse, endlessly circling, each probing for weakness, each waiting for the fatal mistake.
I am there as a goddess is torn from the heavens by a nightmare of myth and legend.
I am there to bear witness as an angel, suddenly bereft of her god's sustaining force cannibalizes her sisters in a desperate bid for survival.
I am there on the hill, arranging troops for one last push at the castle.
I am there at the castle, ordering more conscripts into the vanguard.
I am there in the van, white-knuckled grip on a splintered pitchfork, tasting adrenaline and fear in my mouth like bad copper pennies.

It's my hope that I can share my world and all it's delights and nightmares, but it's my goal that I can actually tell the stories of that world that my mind travels in.
You want to know what I think about [whatever]?
It's nothing.
Trivial and absurd.
We've forgotten what it's like to be human and bartered and bargained for the right to be consumers.
You can have it. I am simply not there. 


I am an Author, and I've got stories to tell.