When I was five, I had insomnia. I have this memory of my frazzled parents tucking me in, and suggesting – probably in a fit of sleep-deprived desperation – that I make use of the time by making up stories.
This seemed like a good idea to me, so I made up a story about a dog and a cat who fell in love and got married, and had a nice little house on a nice little street with a nice batch of genetically interesting children. I didn’t get rid of the insomnia, but I did learn to entertain myself, which I suspect was the main point of the exercise.
After many, many decades of making up stories, I finally thought “Well, let’s give this a shot.” And that’s what I’m doing now. I sleep better these days, but I still make up stories as I doze off at night.
Up until recently, I wrote code for a living. Now I’m writing full-time, which also seemed like a good idea. Only time will tell.