By Taryn Blackthorne On Jan 14 2013, 8:23 am

When I was a kid, my family and I went to my grandmother’s every Sunday for supper and my cousins and I were expected to play together nicely. I’d bring my Barbie™ (all suspiciously dressed in Robin Hood or Biker outfits I’d taken off my brother’s action figures, if not sorceress costumes I’d devised myself), my cousin would have hers (dressed in the latest fashions) and we would set about making our ‘homes’. My cousin would find ashtrays and cover them with handkerchiefs and call it a chaise lounge and I’d have glass ornaments set up to attack the girls when they came around the corner. She’s always yell at me that I wasn’t playing right and I’d always complain that until she finished setting up her house we weren’t playing at all.

You’d think I would have figured out early on that I’m not wired like everyone else. It’s been the same with writing. I took every writing course that came around. I devoured books that came my way, all of them purporting to know the ‘right’ way to write a novel. Yet when I tried it, it didn’t feel right. I felt like one of the ugly step-sisters in Cinderella, shoe-horned into a method that didn’t fit (leave it to me to feel sorry for the step-sister. What if she didn’t want that prince in the first place? ). Read more…

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