The Book Wot I Wrote
The book that changed my life was the one that I wrote. No, I'm not boasting and no, it's never been published. The background is thus...

I've never had particularly high self esteem. I was bullied a lot at school thanks to the usual glasses/intelligence/chubby combo (ah well, at least I wasn't ginger) and I would always look on in every as the people around me displayed their blossoming talents for singing, art, musical instruments or sports. I, however, didn't seem to have any innate artistic talents whatsoever, which only added to my depression and self-loathing.

By the time I got to the age of eighteen, I wasn't much happier with life. Then, one day, a friend mentioned that she'd been reading about the therapeutic qualities of creative writing. Intrigued, I gave it ago -- I stated writing down a story that I'd had rattling around in my brain since the age of sixteen or so. I was amazed at how much I enjoyed doing it, especially when I didn't have to show it to anyone or work to a particular deadline. Better still were the compliments that I received from family and friends once I'd been convinced to let them have a read. I'd never really been complimented for anythign that wasn't academic before.

I finally finished writing that novel eight years later, at the age of twenty-four. I put it away in a drawer to sit for a while, although my friends and fammily kept harassing me to approach a publisher. In retrospect I'm glad I didn't.

Last year I began reading a novel called Eragon. I thoroughly enjoyed it, despite its obvious allegory and derivative nature, and was a little amused by the small things that it had in common with my own work. So much did I enjoy this novel that I immediate rushed out and bought the sequel, Eldest. A quarter of the way into this second book my jaw dropped. Here, on the published page, was a story so close to my own that it could almost have been plagarism, if it wasn't for the sold fact that my has never been posted in any kind of public manner, making it impossible for Christopher Paolini to have stolen it.

No, the truth was that Paolini and I had both written novels based on similar (and limited) influences, and he had got his published first, due mainly to having publishers for parents. Still, so shocked was I of the similarity between the two books (certain facts, plot points and character names) that it prompted me to start widening my influences, leading me to discover the works of Alfred Bester, Richard Mattheson, Elizabeth Kostova, Naomi Novik and more. I have read more and greater novels in the last eighteen months than ever before, and I'm loving every minutes of it.

So, that's how spending eight years writing a novel helped me to discover that I was good at something, raised my self-esteem and introduced me to a world of wonderful, imaginative and emotive literaure. Changed my life? Just a little. :)
(Orin delurked to post this gibberish on, Fri 16 May 2008, 13:45, 3 replies)

Kostova
The Historian is fantastic. So intricately plotted. The pace is deceptively slow but there's loads going on
( Boss Keloid Got your mother's maiden name tattooed on my arm, Fri 16 May 2008, 14:10, closed)

I really enjoyed The Historian.
Unfortunately, this low-brow-Larry picked it up because it was going cheap in tesco.
(Greencloud Wanted to go fishing on, Fri 16 May 2008, 15:16, closed)

Similar story
My own book was an OK detective story based in Edinburgh, written round about 1992-96. Round abou the time that some other bugger called Rankin was starting to get traction with a character called Rebus. At the time, I'd not heard of him.

Not bitter or complaining - he got there first, and he's a *much* better writer than me, but I do find it a giggle that the two came along at once.
( Fireflier La la la la, not listening on, Fri 16 May 2008, 17:39, closed)