I'm a word wrangler...
I started writing stories in middle school (6th to 9th years for you mainky gits) and would amuse myself by writing fantasies about dungeons, dragons, dwarves, elves, hobbits, trolls, etc. I'd create fictional worlds, populate them with said fictional(?) races, and weave intricate tapestries of silliness that would have made any punster proud. This was my hobby and practiced constantly, so when a teacher would assign a writing project on a topic, they invariably had to tell me "Please keep it under a half dozen pages?"
Before such requests became the norm rather than the exception, I could turn a "two page report on $topic" into something a paid-by-the-word author might submit in an attempt to get filthy stinking rich. Worse was if it was on a topic about which I was fond, because then I might wax poeticly for page after page after page. Every little dust mote of minutia, every little tidbit of esoteric trivia, every bit of verbal vomit I could regurgitate all over the page. And since I was typing it all up on my computer (Commodore 64 using PaperClip) I could copy & paste, reorder, splice, tweak, & torture it all until it felt right before hitting print and ripping a copy off the dot matrix printer.
I'd hand over a "rough draft" of ~50 pages of single spaced, 12 point type with 1 inch (~2cm) margins before most of the other students had even figured out WTF to write about in the first place. When the teacher would comment on the fact that I had typed my rough draft, I'd smile, shrug, & explain "I think better that way."
So one day my English teacher gives out our final projects which are to be major discertations on weighty topics requiring much research, editing, revisioning, and _WORK_ to make sure we can't just "spit something out the night before & call it a day". (Restrains the smirk) The topic she hands me is not only one of which I'm fond, it's one near & dear to my heart: the history of heavier than air flight. When I saw my topic I probably squealed like a school girl with a valentine from her favorite crush.
My *first draft* hit nearly 500 pages. I had to cut it back so far that I was afraid it would die from constant consenent dehydration. The "rough draft" I handed in was still over 100 pages long. My teacher had an absolute, utter, unabashed, unmitigated, complete & total shit fit. She said something about assigning a discertation "not a damned epic novel!" To which I said I'd be back after lunch that day. (The school had an open campus, I lived a short bike ride away, so the trip took less time than it took for most students to even make it through the lunch line in the cafeteria.) I come back & drop the *unedited* 500 pager on her desk. "That, Mrs. Evans, is what it was _before_ I neutered it. If you want ''epic'' I'll go back to this one (taps the mountain of papers) and keep going until the project is due in six months."
I do believe she would have spit out her non-false-teeth had she been able to.
We both agreed I'd NOT use the unedited version, go back to the revised one instead, and would kindly refrain from "going through any major dissiduous forest tracts" with future submissions. (Chortle)
Later on I realized that I can write for fun, I can sometimes write for love, but I can't write for profit to save my life. The moment I have to submit something to some blinkering moron whom turns my story into an ocean of red ink, scribbled changes that make no sense, or otherwise destroys what I've written, I get so depressed that I want to go on a moron-murdering-mega-mnemonic-matriculating-masterful-merry-go-round. (Sighs)
I could create entire worlds for D&D adventures with/for my son & friends, I even started drawing the fantasy maps to go along with such realms, but I couldn't stomach crushing my creations into published pulp phiction... (Sorry)
Besides, it's also why I'm posting anonimously: if I stay hidden behind the curtain, I can keep pulling levers, twisting knobs, grinding gears, churning & burning & barfing up idiotic posts like this one in the secure knowledge that you won't drag me outside to stick my head in a poor porcine posterior. (Runs away)