The Beginning

I have always been lost in my own world but didn’t start putting this onto paper until I moved to another city at 12 years old. The idea of this dark, destructive power had been flitting around in my head for years and the characters of Ray and Hiro were as real to me as my other imaginary friends. However, this world of mine had remained a secret treasure until I broke away from a bad situation.
This new freedom splintered a tiny crack inside of me, though I didn’t realise it at the time, resulting in a Pandora’s box being unleashed. A new town I hadn’t even known existed, no repressive family, no one knew me… I could recreate myself. I hadn’t been enrolled into a new Secondary school yet so that left about a month to myself; I had a lot of space to think, to start discovering myself, or at least realising there was more to me.
I still remember the feeling of peace, the warmth of the sun bathing the biggest room I could ever hope for, sitting on a bed that didn’t threaten to collapse under me, no hole’s in the roof, actual heating and not having to worry about who is going to knock on the door. I began to write.
From then on, writing has been my escape and outlet for the maelstrom in my mind. But my writing was as stiff and reserved, cold and emotionless as me. I had such iron control over my characters that they would sneak out of that crack every time I let my guard down for a second. They would wreak havoc, shake me up a bit and let me know they were not happy, before I confined them safely back into my obsidian palace.
It took an incredibly long time to let my characters loose, to not try and protect them behind iron gates. Then another problem occurred. With this new freedom, they ran wild! Ray was the only one I could control, no, rather her thoughts and actions were the only ones of all the characters that I was fully aware of. Idris was, and still is, so unpredictable I don’t even try to keep pace with his erratic moods and reckless behaviour, and unlike Hiro, he doesn’t even apologise!
It has been a good journey, one I had to take for myself. I can read the hundreds of variations and drafts I wrote over the 10 years and see how it has grown with me. As frustrating as it was that I was never satisfied with my novel, never feeling it truly conveyed what I wanted to show, I know now that that’s because I wasn’t at the place I wanted to be, I wasn’t the person I wanted to be yet.
My writing is a reflection of me; It was ready when I was ready.