It’s a truism that tragedy and emotional turmoil are often found in the background of writers, and I’m no exception to that. Short version: My father was a pilot who died in a plane crash in 1956, when I was just shy of 9, after which my mother more or less retreated from emotional involvement with her four children. She was there, but not, if you know what I mean. Lonely and grieving, I turned to books for company and solace. A few years before she died, my mother acknowledged that I’d basically raised myself, and that I’d done a pretty good job of it.
Some really smart writer said it best: Writing is rewriting. The quote is often attributed to Ernest Hemingway, but a whole lot of writers say the same thing. You need to get the first draft down, and maybe the second and the third, etc., and then the real work begins.
Ah, if only it were that simple. My process is a bit more complicated, because my internal editor is a FEROCIOUS PIRATE! ARRGHHH!