I used to want to be the next Dean Koontz or Stephen King. I struggled for so long to try and fit my shoes into their footprints. Not anymore. Now I want to be the best Merrie Destefano I can be. I want my stories to be as fresh and unique as possible, and I seek to always maintain my own voice.
That said, I know that over time, my voice will evolve, as it should. My stories will get better, the characters richer, the plots more intriguing. I hope to mature in my own skin, with my wrinkles and folds and freckles reminding me of my imperfections. I want to drink in the work of other writers and musicians and artists to refresh myself, like a lioness in the Serengeti, pausing from the hunt just long enough to regain my strength.
I want to always have a novel under my fingers, tangled like skeins of yarn, waiting to be woven into a literary garment of beauty.
Being a writer is the work of a lifetime. There is no “arrival,” no aha moment.
Feet bare and dusty, I want only to continue on the wilderness path my entire life, glimpsing my characters as they peek at me from the forest deep. I want communion with the black and white words that hum like music as they congregate together, first into sentences, then paragraphs, and finally entire novels.
I crave the solitude and mental awareness that comes from creating stories—from building one scene on top of another like totems of glue and feather and bone.
I am a writer. I pray that I may ever be.