This inspired me to tell my own story. Why did I ever decide that writing was what I wanted to do? I’ve been wracking my brain trying to pinpoint that moment where I said to myself “I want to be a writer when I grow up,” and like mapelba of writing in the water, I don’t think there was a single moment. It’s just something that’s always been there. It was just made clear when I hit adolescence.
I remember when I was five years old and I couldn’t even print properly yet. I took one of my school notebooks, the yellow paperbound ones, with the larger margins and the dotted line in the middle so you knew where to place your lower case letters and upper case letters, and I wrote a story. The funny thing is that I remember writing it, I remember it was about a chick on a farm. I remember I spelt chick as “chik.” How do I remember this?
Either way, I’ve always loved stories, telling them, reading them, and so on. I can never pass up a good story, in any medium.
Stories transport you to another place, they take you by the hand and bring you into a Neverland of infinite possibilities. As a child, this is how I ran away. I ran into the pages of books to escape whatever it was I couldn’t or didn’t want to handle. It’s a bad habit that I still partake in.
I never had a bad childhood, it was good a lot of the time. But, nothing is perfect. There were fights, punishments, tantrums, and silences. But in stories the good guys always won, the guy always got the girl, and everyone was always smiling by the end.
I remember realizing that I could make these stories too. My childhood best friend always got upset with me when I fell asleep first during our sleepovers. She had trouble sleeping, so she always asked me to tell her a story until she fell asleep. Now, these were no masterpieces of course, but they did their job. So in a sense, I’ve always been a story teller.
I still run into pages of books. I run into stories because they make me feel like a human being, if that makes any sense. They bring out a side of me that makes me realize how much of a person I am. But I’m still hiding in these pages, hiding from whatever it is I don’t want to do, see, or be.
Don’t misunderstand me, I love my life. I have a loving family, amazing friends who care about me, the ability to get a higher education, a lovely kitten, and an almost romantic life. But who wants to do the dishes when you can sore of into the skies or solve a mystery or discover the meaning of life.
I became a story teller but I’ve always been an escape artist.