Authorship: A Collective Endeavor

I have grown to love writing. It was never something I particularly hated, although I didn't enjoy it to begin with.  I did, however, love to read. And it was my reading that inspired me writing. At first, it was just something I did: I wrote to express my feelings. Most of my early stories (in Elementary school) were based off of things that I had read. I wrote reports when I had to, pictures stories when I wanted to.

In fifth grade my teacher gave us a writing assignment every week. On Mondays he would give us the prompt, usually a phrase or idea, and we would have the week to come up with a one page story based off of it. At first I wrote short things, but soon I learned how to change the margins and font size on the word documents so I could fit almost two pages worth of writing onto one page. I guess it was cheating, but I was somewhat of a teacher's pet, so it was okay. At the end of the week we would choose the stories he thought were the most well-written. Being somewhat of a show off, I always spent much longer on it than necessary so that my story would be read aloud each week in class.

I later entered two writing festivals, and won a spot in both. (I should post what I wrote sometime.) I met a girl, who would become one of my very best friends, who also loved writing. And reading. I don't think I've ever met anyone who read so much. She had a way with words, and her stories were so interesting; with their believable characters, strong heroines, sharp humor, smooth dialogue. She showed me how to look at life differently, and then write about it. Together we would swap story and character ideas. Eventually I had to move states.

And then I moved grades. Although I didn't work on a story that I had started, I continued to write poetry. I met more friends who loved art and who helped me discover writing all over again. I quickly grasped that my writing abilities were going to have to snap out of the cliched fantasy I was used to copying. My poetry was going to have to condense from water into delicate sculptures of ice. And all along the way there were teachers and friends that pushed me and uncovered my eyes to the wonders of the written word. 

I took a creative writing class with some of my very best friends. We shared our ideas and peered through others' eyes, stumbling in their shoes. My best friend made the most amazing metaphors for things. To read her work was to take a refreshing swim in a painting and come out a whole new color. Our souls grew into women in that school and we got heady brave with words. Then we climbed the poems and stories and essays to college... and then through.

I have found that writing isn't just something I do for fun anymore; it's wholly necessary, like water or sleep. When I don't write, it's as though I've been wandering for days without looking to see where I'm going. Words are the sun that tells me when to wake up and go faster, when to slow down and sleep. This is one of the reasons I started this blog... it's my mental clock. It's a common misconception that time makes years pass by; but it's actually memories.

I hope to write more stories here, that even if they are never given the breath that blows from turning pages, even if they are never born with a cover or a spine, they can still be enjoyed by you, and by Future Me.

This is a dedication to all of the people who have given pieces of themselves to me. (Thank you.) Chances are you'll see them woven into these stories. Just look for the particularly brilliant phrases.