Back when I started this merry dance, all I needed was a pen and a sheet of tablet paper. For years, that was enough — and it was also enough that I was the only one who read my stories.
Fast-forward through time: the manual typewriter my dad bought at a yard sale. Then, a little electric typewriter. Word processors ranging from useful to brain-killing. And, finally, a computer. And the World Wide Web.
“Simple” is no longer good enough. These days, writing brings with it the need for a professional-grade cover. A website, a Twitter feed, a Facebook page. A mailing list (which, at present, has no members). I’ve gone from a readership of one, to a readership several hundred strong, from something like 20 countries around the world — yet by many people’s standards, I’m not a success. Those people tell me I have a long way to go, and that I need to work my butt off for every inch I gain.
But the storytelling is still the same. It’s me, in a quiet room, listening to my imagination.