I've been an aspiring writer for longer than my memory has existed.

I have started dozens of stories, written many childish poems, poured my heart out in dark prose, created humourous short stories for friends, but I have never felt that I was any good at it. Not at all.

I began heavy research, laid out plans and created intricate characters for a story that has swirled around in my head for ages. I am very much a bare bones writer, I fill in the fat as I go, but I weave the story first. I feel more confident as I explore dialogue, open up relationships, make character connections and fill in the scenes.

I have pictures on my door of character likenesses, names, descriptions, house plans and layouts to keep my mind always on the story.

I let a couple of people read the first dozen pages I had written. I was very adamant that it was very bare bones and I had a long way to go.

I recieved criticism that I was not expecting from someone very important to me. My heart broke. The other two people, one an author in her own right, were so very supportive and couldn't wait to read more. The criticism I recieved from my best friend just about killed my desire to write. Let me rephrase that, it did kill my desire to write. I was called an immature writer. I wrote basically like a grade six student.

I had not written a word in almost 6 months. I began again last week. Timidly, hesitantly.

My boyfriend is amazing. He encourages me, tells me to just write because he knows how much I love it.

So, under an identity only I and my boyfriend know, I'm going to explore my creativity once again.