Ever since I was in 3rd Grade, I've enjoyed writing. I remember being in bed at night, drifting to sleep by imagining myself inside a story (always space-related or science-fiction type stories). As time went on, I took to writing and (after my parents presented me with my own electric typewriter) typing stories. As is normal, the early stories I wrote were mostly in imitation of the stories I was reading at the time. I imitated only the best - Robert Heinlein and Arthur C. Clarke for the most part, though I remember handing in a knock-off of a Harlan Ellison story once for a social studies class. Oh well, the teacher gave me an A, and my story no longer exists. I never made a dime on it. So there.
Still, I got into the habit of writing (often losing track of time, and writing till 3:00 AM or later), and not learning anything about the CRAFT of writing. I even wrote a book (sort of) and sent it off to a publisher. They returned it (in spite of the lack of an SASE) with a form rejection letter. Looking back, I wonder at the kindness of the person who actually looked into my tiny packet. Over the years, I've been treated worse.
In 1988, a rare treat came my way. Orson Scott Card was offering a creative writing class. I scraped together the money, and took part. During the class, we talked about the basics of writing stories. I was somewhat offended when one fellow student told me I wasn't a writer unless I had already sold some of my work. I considered at that time (and I still do) that she was a cretin, and had even more serious mental problems than I do. Everyone was required to write 2 stories for the class to critique. I proudly presented a story I had been working on for nearly a year, my best effort to that time.
No one understood it. Mr. Card was particularly harsh in his criticism. I gathered up all the copies I had distributed and slunk home to be depressed for a few days. I then started another story, one that was more in line with what we were being taught. It was received much better, though there was no way it could be sold. I took the idea, reworked it completely, and came up with the story:
It nearly sold to one magazine, but I failed to follow up with the one editor who showed a little interest. I didn't realize until much later that she had asked for a tiny revision and might have bought it had I re-submitted it. Too late now, of course. One magazine was so cold as to send me a coupon offering to sell me a subscription to the magazine. Brrrr.
I have also written a novel (called "Passing in the Dark") which I will most likely never try to sell. The experience of writing a full 80,000 words was a good practical warm-up for working on material for sale. Speaking of which, I have completed work on a far larger novel that is the start of a series that I would have loved to sell. It generated zero interest when I tried to present it to a series of editors and agents, so it currently is gathering digital dust on my jump drive.
Update: Because I have almost exactly nothing to lose, I have decided to try something new. I am taking the original manuscript that I tried to sell for oh so many years, and posting it chapter-by-chapter, once a week on a new writing blog I have set up. Feel free to partake of the story. And if you fnd it entertaining, please let your friends know about my efforts.
In the meantime, I am working to re-write the book, using some new ideas that I have come up with while the blog version has been on the shelf. Who knows? Maybe one day, this effort to tweak the noses of the publishing industry will pay off.
My latest writing project is non-fiction: a religious autobiography. As with all my other projects, there has been zero interest from the agents I have queried. I wish I could find just ONE agent who would give me some constructive feedback from my e-mails. Apparently, responding to the likes of me is beneath all of them. If this work goes unnoticed as well, I expect I'll end up posting it here as well. It'd be interesting to discover that SOME people find my stuff worth reading, at least a little.