I don’t remember the first time I picked up a book and felt the pages and the firm spine beneath my fingers. There were too many books for me to keep count of. I do remember the first time I wrote a book. It was in second grade and I remember having to read it in front of everyone and being absolutely terrified. As soon as the words began to flow, however, and I began to immerse myself in the story I had written... from that moment on, I loved stories. I loved telling stories, reading them, living them...
Not a day has gone by where I don’t imagine my life in a fantastical way. I’m often consumed with the way my life could be. Perhaps, in some other world, my dreams and fantasies could come true, and perhaps that other world is in the pages of books and in between the lines of the stories I love so much.
I filled my mind with as many stories as I could. When I was too young to read the big books on my own, my mom would read them to me. She would lie with me in bed and I always asked for “just one more chapter.” I wanted to soak in as many words as I could, despite my tiredness. I wanted to live the story.
Along the way, I must have gotten tired of waiting for my story to begin. I began to write my own stories. Before I turned 11, I had already written my first novel and proudly given it to my dad to proofread. It was a book about cats (of course). I could tell he wasn’t exactly wildly interested in it. But regardless he gave his unending support and praise and told me how I was his "little writer." That part of my identity just seemed to stick.
Once my life began to change, writing became an even bigger part of my daily life. Through tough times (there was certainly a surplus of those), I used writing as an escape. When things got tough, I would sit and write and become someone else, and in those moments, I didn’t have to worry about being brave or strong because I was all of those things. More than ever before I wished to evaporate into the stories I wrote and read. Stories took me away from all of the stress and sadness that surrounded me.
Each one of my stories holds a special place in my heart. They clearly show the progress I've made as a writer and as a person because of better story lines, more complex characters, and less morally absolute topics.
It's no secret to my friends that I would rather write than go out shopping or to the game. Nevertheless, I very rarely share my books with my friends. I sincerely fear the rejection that may come if I reveal my long hours of work. My parents have encouraged the idea of sending my books out to publishers or agents, but it’s never happened. I would love for my books to be read or recognized. I would love for my stories to inspire others to write their own. But the all-consuming fear of having something I treasure so dearly being rejected or ripped apart sentence by sentence stifles me.
Perhaps my writing will never be read. Perhaps my books will remain lost in the files of my laptop forever. But that was never the reason I wrote. I never wrote to get published, make money, or to gain notoriety.
I write to live a different life for a moment. I write to escape the responsibilities and stress of my everyday life. I write to become (even if for just a moment) someone I have always wanted to be. I write to feel alive, to feel like I am truly myself. I write because when I feel like I’m drowning, writing is my breath of fresh of air. I write because I have never known a world without it. I write because I have to.
