I’m a writer. At least, I want to be.
Did I always want to be a writer? I’m not sure. I remember watching Captain Caveman as a kid and seeing a couple of episodes that still hold up as crime plots in my grown up mind. Even then, I thought it would be cool to steal, er, pay tribute through homage to, those plot ideas. I was seven or so. I remember watching Scooby Doo and working out ideas for the treasure where it was something totally unexpected. Rather than a stash of Civil War gold, or a fortune in gems, why not some odd collectible item that would be cast aside by nearly anyone that found it?
I’m drifting a bit.
I look back to my life then, and I wanted to make stories. I wanted to make them my way with characters doing what I wanted them to do. But why?