I grew up hearing I was talented. I grew up being told that I should write as much as I possibly could because practice makes perfect. I wrote with a passion unlike any other, filled thousands of pages with words I was proud of. Were they good? Probably not. But during that time, when I was writing about all these crazy ideas that popped into my head, I did not care. I did not care because I felt powerful and mighty, like by holding a pen in my hand I could decide the fate of the world. I could, in a way. I created stories, worlds and characters that perhaps were not real, but they were alive. I knew their backstory better than my own. I was proud to talk about it with my friends, with my parents. I was proud I loved to write, and proud in my ability to. Sometimes I felt that if I did not write my ideas down, I would go crazy. I cannot count the stories I have created, nor can I remember every single plot or character. But I remember those who were special to me, the book I started when I was 10 and finished when I was 12, all written by hand and lost forever now. I remember those nights I stayed awake and could not stop writing because I had so many ideas, those nights I would call my best friend and talk about plot twists and plot holes and search for inspiration.


But then I grew up, I suppose. I'm not quite sure exactly what happened. There was a switch, I suppose, when people saying I was talented was no longer encouraging. I did not feel talented anymore, and perhaps I cared a little too much about the voice in my head that wondered if others would like my work. When people said I could come far with my writing, it struck me with fear. Somehow, somewhere along the way, I lost the writer who shouted on top of her lungs that she would be an author. Perhaps I felt like I made the final decision to say farewell to that dream when I declined a spot in a creative writing program. Or perhaps I made the choice it was no longer my dream when I felt like I should feel talented and great and confident. When I read back at things I wrote now, from 10 years ago, I can so clearly tell there was passion there. It wasn't very good, but I had a strong voice that I felt comfortable with. When I read what I wrote 4 years ago, I see thousands of flaws but I see a love for writing and a way with words. It's far away from perfect, but it's not as bad as I thought it was. Now that I feel like I have lost my voice, I wonder if in 4 years I will look back at this project and think hey, this isn't terrible. I wonder that in 5 years, I will wish I had not abandoned it. I keep on writing, working on this project, hoping I will find myself again. Hoping I can unleash the 8 year old girl who could jump up and down from excitement because she had just written what she believed was the greatest story ever. When I put the final touches on this project, I hope 12 year old me would be proud of me, if not hate me a little for losing my way.

Published by Quelly And Dorian