I want to write stories

I want to write stories.

The thing is, I've never really written anything serious and I dont know where to start. Most compelling stories are about interaction with other human beings, and I've had very few mentors, friends, girlfriends or general human interaction in most of my life, it's not something I'm good at. I think I might be slightly autistic because of my ineptitude at socializing and its nuances. It's not something I'm wholly incapable of but it's like trying to describe a person on the other side of a fogged glass.
I want to write about my youth and growing up to become an adult. But such things arent that interesting when most of it was spent idly, or when there are few other persons in it to adequately reflect upon the interactions shared with them.

However, the moments and decisions and environments that shaped who I was as an individual are what separated me from the rest of my peers. Those things I want to share as a story but I dont know how to make this slow-cooked stew of misery an interesting thing to digest.

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Start smaller, try just writing a paragraph or two describing some trivial experiences you had, anything at all - eating, walking, anything. Write a couple of these and edit mercilessly until you excise as much of the natural pretentiousness/awkwardness you'll doubtlessly have have as a new writer

At least, that's what I'm trying to do, and it seemed to help, I only tried writing my first thing a week or so ago lol, gl man

A vast part of literature is introspective fiction written by authors dealing with solitude and alienation. You don't need to write realistic characters, rather you need to start expanding and exploiting your imagination, something which not many are capable of. As an introvert you might already have an edge.

Start with an idea, have a conscious sense of how your piece will feel and flow, execute it to the best of your current ability, keep rewriting till it's feels right, and finish it. Perhaps emulate aspects of great works that resonated with you.

Come back to your work after some time, and look at it critically. Mark up where you feel like you can improve. Dissatisfaction with your work is part of the process, and use that feeling to drive you. Read more, and write more, and you shall improve.

I grew up resenting and distrusting both of my parents. Born in the early 90s, I was raised in a hoarder home. My father beat my mother and my mother cheated on him, this was a regular thing. Shouting matches and physical fights, conflicts for freedom and power. They were simultaneously controlling, abusive and neglectful to me and my brother. We weren't allowed to take care of ourselves, we weren't allowed to have responsibilities. We weren't taken care of and nor were household responsibilities managed. Left to ourselves all we had to do was read, not being allowed outside. Sometimes wed use our mothers computer when she was absent. To this day I've probably written a hundred times more words than spoken.

My mother was always absent even when present, often nonresponsive behind a computer screen or book or at work or cheating on my father. She often told us things that my father always said were lies.
My father regained the power he lost over our mother by beating us and abusing us, in my early childhood I recall times where he would chase us and bite us with a human skull he had allegedly obtained from medical school. During bathing he would hold us underwater and laugh. He often sat on us and pulled our hair and fingers, squeezing our little limbs, covering our mouths and noses and watching us fight for air. I recall some sexual abuse too, hurting our genitals or assholes. When he wasnt hurting us, he was hurting our mother, drinking or yelling at a sports show. As we grew older and my mother left, our father became more verbal and controlling, preventing me and my brother from learning how to take care of ourselves or having self reliance.

In school I was naturally bullied, for being odd and socially inept and demanding of attention and affection I didnt receive at home. I had few friends, the friends I did have were weirder than me and had little to be learned from on how to properly behave. I was smarter than most of my classmates and lacked the discipline to hone it and make anything of it.

I grew to distrust others and to expect pain from human interaction. Yet, come high school I made friends, other kids who had fucked up childhoods. Eventually was pressured to do drugs, which I gave into. I was often absent from school, absent from home, finding ways to make money so I could drink and smoke, among other things. My father never taught me how to ride a bike or swim, something I was mocked for but reluctantly taught how to do by my friends. We often explored the city, making graffiti under bridges or stealing things to sell.

I began to realize that I was a lackey and tagalong with this group of friends. They would often do the most exciting things without me, leaving me behind for girls or the better drugs.

Around 16 we began to smoke black tar heroin, too ignorant to know what opium really was. I almost overdosed several times on it, and stopped after several months while my friends struggled with it for a year.

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Also, it doesn't matter what the idea is, just make sure the idea resonates deeply with you. That depth of emotion is what drives literature. Your writing ability will improve over time.

I mean there's plenty there to write about, even if you want to base it strictly on experiences familiar to you (though I don't wanna make assumptions). Read Witch Piss by Sam Pink if you think that sort of experience can't be compelling, it's about a friendless semi-homeless kid who wanders around drinking, trying to make friends with the local, addicts/homeless/mentally disabled, etc. and I thought it made for great (if vulgar) literature

You can do it user

I had several failed interactions with girls, often having feelings for one here and there instead of just fucking who ever I could like my friends did.

When I wasnt doing stupid shit with friends, I wasted almost all of my spare time behind a computer that i had stolen, playing videogames or shitposting on the internet. I started to mentally grow separate than my friends, my mind getting hijacked by internet jargon and memes and an unlimited access to irrelevant information.

I found interests in the supernatural and occult, merely for enjoyment instead of legitimate belief. The unknown was an interesting thing to me.

I started breaking into old buildings or sealed caves and tunnels, spending the majority of the dark hours out exploring or simply biking around the city at night. In the morning I'd sleep in a park or down by the river, showing up to school late and covered in mud, dust, sweat and morning dew.

A lot of this I realized was escapism, escape from reality and my home life and ineptitude to lead a normal life. Escape from my father.

When high school graduation came around, I found out I had to do a 5th year of high school because of all my missing credits. My friends decided to go to a credit program while I stayed at our old school, hoping to learn how to talk to others and maybe learn how to study.

I grew separate from my old friends for a while, making friends with some girls in junior year and some of their siblings and male friends. I ended up abandoning feelings and giving into lust and almost fucking a few if them, which ended up exploding and lashing back at me as I destroyed friendships and trust. I felt confused after experiencing emotionless intimacy, and alienated myself further from others.

Before I graduated I was hanging out with a girl who wasnt of age, under the belief she would show me how to study and prepare for college. She ended up taking off her clothes and threatening to tell people if I didn't fuck her, and she got on top of me and fucked me. I didnt know how to say no or escape the situation and just let it happen. This really broke me and had an effect on my personality.

After graduation, I made more friends, the new age hippie type. They had a music band together. In this I was again a tagalong and a lackey. We did lots of hallucinogens together, another spice that affected my personality. I started getting worse with words and socializing and my self confidence plummeted. Soon I realized my friends pitied me and thought I was autistic, and so I stopped hanging out with them.

This began a period where I spent almost a year alone, exploring the city and entering old caves and tunnels and such.

>I've had very few mentors, friends, girlfriends or general human interaction in most of my life, it's not something I'm good at.

This literally NEVER stopped anyone.

Authors are not exactly Chads, user. In fact, some of their greatest works are fanfictions on how they wished their lives were like.

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You've had way more social interaction than I have - and a far more interesting lifestory as well.

This should not stop you from writing.