From the moment I first understood what a writer was, I wanted to be one.

It just made sense. Stories had their way of gripping my young mind in ways hitherto.

And I went to lengths to be one.

When I was younger, I still remember my parent’s first computer. The tapping of the keyboard keys struck a cord. I still get that feeling now, giddy. But once I learned how to type, I would—I’m not kidding—write out children’s books. Word for word. Just because I enjoyed it. I eventually started to type out books with a little more girth. Oftentimes, when my eyes crossed or I tired, I would have my babysitter continue to type out my carefully selected books. (They weren’t Hemingway or F. Scott Fitzgerald or anything grandiose, sadly). I’m not sure why she acquiesced. Probably because I was finally quiet.

Today, I still tap a keyboard. Now for a living.

And I’d still make my babysitter continue to write for me if I could.

Keep writing. Every. Damn. Day.

Written by Ryan Bolton

Ryan is a Toronto-based writer and photographer that likes to break the rules. His work has taken him around the world to do what he truly loves—storytelling. And drinking cold beer.

8 comments

  1. You brought back a childhood memory of mine. I used to do the same thing! I was an only child in a small town. I’d hang out in the spare bedroom with a crappy old typewriter, either making up stories about lost cave-worlds, or type a book I had. Thanks for that and great blog!

Thoughts?

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s