I’ve been trying to write a book since I was sixteen. My biggest inspiration was the very beginning of the Last of the Mohicans. I loved the way James Fenimore Cooper described the land:

“A wide and apparently, an impervious boundary of forests”, “struggling against the rapids of the streams, or in effecting the rugged passes of the mountains”.

It inspired me to write this:

“In a vast, docile wilderness, a wind chill whipped through an abundance of pine trees, generating a rippling effect of green from an eagle’s view and from the windows of the autumn mist. Cutting through the mountains a few hundred feet to the west, was a river of cold blue, turning itself over the rocks and rapids and housing a school of salmon which jumped from their sanctuary in smooth repetition. Bear would gather at the mouth and wait for a flash of silver to jump unknowingly into their jaws. Scattered gold light lit the passage of fox to run among the roots of the forest floor, which was littered in cones and decaying flora. Nearby a doe and her fawns would trek through, pausing for a minute to warm in the god rays.”

My favorite series, hands down is the Harry Potter series, of course. I’ve always been mesmerized by the way J. K. Rowling can tie any loose end together and make underlying connections that still have yet to be discovered by readers. I love how reading and re-reading her books always offer something new. In fact it was one of the books in the Harry Potter series that inspired my next excerpt. She mentioned Hagrid’s Patchwork quilt, and thinking about the quilt, led me to write this:

“The front door’s frosted patchwork of stained glass colored the snow where the light fell, and the merry sounds of music and laughter muffled behind it. This was it. I pulled the heavy door open with a loud rusty creak and stepped over the threshold. Every nail in the mud room was packed with traveler’s cloaks, coats, woolen sweaters, hats and scarves, hiding both of the log benches. Wet and muddy shoes and boots lined the red wool rug, soaking the floor in dirty puddles. I hung my cloak on one of the lesser burdened nails and went through to the front room, where a woman in a commoner’s clothing stood behind a wooden desk.”

Whether or not these excerpts will form to become a book is unknown. Whether I will ever write an entire novel and publish it is unknown. But for now, I know this:

I can write, my writing is good. I am talented. I can write a novel.