There was a defining moment in my childhood that signaled the start of my lifelong career as a writer.

At one point in my own adventure of growing up, I had even decided that I wanted to be an author. When adults would ask me what I wanted to be when I was older, I often felt as if they expected me to blurt out "doctor" or "teacher" gleefully, just as other youngsters do. When I boldly proclaimed that I wanted to write books, I received a surprised glare--whether or not it was shocking because I had chosen a career off the beaten path of what children typically pick, or because they hadn't expected someone as young as seven or eight to even know what an author was, I'll never know. My desire to be an author would eventually fade, and I would end up as an early childhood and special education major. There was one story I wrote, however, that shows how writing impacted me even from a young age.

I'd like to finally be able to share this story.

To much halloween!!!!!!!!
Hi i'm leasa its halloween! I'm going as a wich! But then wen I was don Trik or Triting I wanted more candy then dad said you'l turn into a peice of candy wen you wake up tomorrow. I said kNow way that could never or ever happen!

then I woke up then I saw myself In the Batroom mirrow I was cewing myself. Dad was right!

Chapter 2
then evry Day (it was a good thing that it was summer) I was srinking and srinking and srinking then I saw my calender It was the 9 of July 2007 we were going camping tomorrow It was going to be very very very very very very very very very very daingoris to get in the car.

so then it was only 70 minits to get ther then whiel I was at the bord walk I was writing to my frend abby, Im candy! love leasa. then a guy found me I said I come in peace

but he couldent hear me or undertand me eny way. then he was going to saw [drawing of the tool] me in have to show peopl my vocrl cords

Chapter 3
then I jumped of the table then he said come try are new cocolet moca candy he put me inside the window then peopl had 20$ or 30$ in ther hands to get moca it was 30$ but the coclet cost 20$ and to get both you had to have 40$ to get that. I thogth I would never be a humen ever agein!

Chapter 4
then I was put in a plastic bage I didint want to be candy then I started to cry then a fary came and said I know. your punishment you will stay as a candy only you'l be biger and you will never srink oka? oka I said then I foun mom and dad The ENd.

While typing this, there were several moments when I laughed at my inventive spelling or my clearly-present plotholes. I knew the proper spelling of "plastic" but not "bag"? The man (who I assume was a candy salesman of some sort) cannot hear or understand our poor girl made out of chocolate mocha, yet he wishes to cut her open to find her vocal cords? And why such a specific date of July 9th, 2007, two years into the future at the time?

These are the questions that, eleven years later, I still have no answer to.

Despite the obvious mistakes in spelling, punctuation, and the plot, this story goes beyond these errors. This creation of mine represented my dream to write and was the manifestation of all the nights spent reading bedtime stories with my dad, with our favorite tale being The Wind in the Willows.

Unfortunately, we all must grow up from bedtime fairytales and into the harsh realities of the world. By the age of fourteen, I was bombarded by a slew of research paper assignments and standardized tests, both of which would continue to follow me throughout the rest of high school. I detracted from my dreams of being an author as my chances to write diminished. Adults told me I needed to have a "real" job in mind and that I needed to seriously start thinking about a career--as if being a writer wasn't a plausible answer.

In retrospect, I suppose those who discouraged me from being an author have a point. Unless I sputtered out the next Harry Potter series, I don't think I would be able to sustain myself for long. I was reduced to believing that I could never achieve the dream I had set for myself at seven years old. The child that remained inside of me still had stories to tell.

Occasionally, my mother questioned why I never wrote anymore. I would respond with "I don't know, I just don't like it anymore." This was a half truth because I did know why I had stopped writing: not only did I not like it, but the ambivalence from teachers and grades on my writing had created a bad taste in my mouth.

It wasn't until recently that this bad taste disappeared and my desire to write resurfaced. And, instead of having adults tell me whether or not my goals are ideal or realistic, I've embraced a passion of mine that I thought was gone forever. "To much halloween" is a tale that I still close to my heart--albeit, through the narration of a seven-year-old--as it was what began my journey to being a writer. I may not have published a book and I may not be majoring in writing, but I've begun to write again for my own enjoyment.

I believe that's good enough for me.