The first story I ever wrote that I cared about for longer than a few days was inspired by an illustration in a book I read in the sixth grade about Harriet Tubman and the Underground Railroad. American history had always been an inspiring subject for me, and even though the “book” itself, if you could even call it that, was completely filled with errors, factually incorrect, and just plain terrible, I still look back on it with nothing but pride and fond memories.

You see, when I was younger, anything and everything inspired me to write. Often it was history, but sometimes it was other things. I tried out every genre imaginable. Notebook upon notebook is filled with the childish scribblings of the beginnings of probably hundreds of stories, stories that have long since fallen by the wayside with no hope of me ever remembering how they were supposed to end. Or even how they were supposed to go in the first place.

For the longest time, the sheer idea of anybody actually, heaven forbid, reading any of these nonsensical scribbles filled me with a sort of terror. In fact, many of the stories I came up with were never written down at all. One of my most vivid and fondest childhood memories is of going out into our backyard to the old playground, sitting on the blue swing by myself, and telling stories, making them up entirely as I went along. But after a bit, that got far too lonely. I began to realize the importance of sharing what I created with others and, once I got a taste of it, I could never imagine going back. After all, as I came to slowly realize, stories are meant to be shared. That’s kind of the point.

And so I would invite my brother and sister out with me to the swing set and I would spin them stories, probably nonsensical, mainly silly, with no real substance or plot. But my siblings were enraptured nonetheless. I would read to them on occasion, but I much preferred telling them my own stories. And I didn’t quite realize it at the time, but that was when I learned just how powerful stories were… and how powerful mine could be, it filled me with a sort of explainable joy; to have the chance to share what I’d created, and ever since then, that passion has only grown within me.

One unspoken rule I had was to never ever delete or throw away. Even if a story was terrible, I would not allow myself to get rid of it, and I was rarely ever tempted, because there’s always something you can learn from it. It turned out to be a very good thing that I’d kept to that rule because I ended up reading through some of my old writing for inspiration, and coming across a little story I’d written who knows how long ago, about a twelve-year-old girl named Delia and her interesting family. It wasn’t the most exciting of stories, but something in it sparked my attention for the second time. And from that sprung the first real novel that I ever actually finished, my senior project, and one of the biggest accomplishments of my life.

I got to know Delia very very well over the next few months as I decided to make this, my first full-length middle-grade novel, my senior project. Writing that book took a whole lot of willpower, perseverance, and strength, a lot more than I’d ever even expected. I wrote up a schedule for myself and stuck to it like glue, or as best as I could. I had to balance writing my book along with my homework load, having a large part in the play that year, moving houses, and being heavily involved in my youth group. It was a lot. A lot of people have asked me how I even survived, to which I generally respond jokingly with, “I don’t know!”

But I do know. The answer is simple. I was doing something that I absolutely loved, and more than that, I was getting the chance to share that thing that I absolutely loved with others. I had the opportunity to tell a much more complex story than I’d ever told before, and share it with others. I got critique from quite a few people, including a friend’s parent who was a published author, and while it was a bit discouraging to see all my flaws pointed out, it only helped me to grow into the kind of writer I am now. And when it was all said and done and I held the book in my hands, gave copies to my friends and family, and let others read what I had written, it was more than accomplishment that I felt. I had told a story. I had shared that story. And while I closed the cover of that particular story for good after my senior year, I knew now just how incredible it was. And thus I knew for sure I was going to write something else, something bigger, something better, something I’d be even more passionate about.

Which is more or less exactly what happened. The spring of my senior year, I was inspired to write my next novel. The summer after that, I actually wrote the first draft. And I haven’t stopped working on it since. I am currently working on a sixth draft, and this book, Sure Uncertainty is more than just my life… it’s a part of me.

Writing, to me, is more than just about putting words on a page (or a screen). I want others to feel the same passion that inspires in me to spend hours upon countless hours working on this one story. I want them to understand just what it is about my characters that makes them real to me, because they are. I want others to know exactly how much a story like this means to me. There literally is no greater joy in my life than hearing people talk about my book or about my characters. Whether that’s to get frustrated with them, laugh at them, laugh with them, or just talk about how much they enjoyed or hated a certain part. It gives me life to see others get as excited as I am about them; for them to realize just how much a part of me my stories are.

It is actually quite funny to me, thinking back to my childhood, and the fear I had that anyone would ever actually read my writing… Because now my writing is so much a part of me, that it just makes sense to share it with people who I care about, and just people in general. Because that’s just it… stories are meant to be shared. And I for one am so excited to share my stories with the world.