I wish I could remember how I found Young Writers Society. I really do. That way I could pull my grandkids up on my lap and tell them how I, their grandparent who loses her teeth three times a week, found my way into the throngs of the greatest writing community ever... and wasn't kicked out on sight.
Problem is, I really can't remember how I got here. It's been two years now since I joined. I guess I didn't know how big of an impact YWS was going to have on my future self, or else I would have written down every detail of my harrowing conversion from the labyrinthine clutches of Writing.com to the bright and rainbow-filled embrace of Young Writers Society.
As it is, that's all I know: I ended up here somehow. Maybe I'll add ninjas when I tell the story to future generations. Or a car chase.
Even if I don't remember how I got here, I certainly am glad that I ended up where I did. Young Writers Society has been everything I ever wanted from a writing site. There are people here who really care about you and your work, trying to make it better through their critiques, rather than simply trying to fill some sort of review quota. There's a real community here, like a family interested in both giving and taking, rather than a collection of neediness, with everyone trying to be heard but not willing to listen.
I've ended up in writerly heaven. I just wish I could remember how I died to get here. It'd probably make a good novel.
