I’m not here to tell you anything you already know. I’m not here to tell you anything at all. All I want is to see if my words breathe out here as deeply as they do in my mind. But ultimately who cares?
AKA About
One of my earliest concepts of what life was, was a story. As a littler girl in my toddler sized bed with plastic guardrails and white flowered sheets, after my mom would read me books in an attempt to quiet my thoughts, my mind would wonder what we were. What I came up with was a story. I imagined that another little girl, maybe who looked like me but was the size of a giant, would open her book at bedtime, and there I would be among her pages, living out my life. When I went to sleep that meant she had closed her book for the night and I would wake up when she opened it again to read the next pages.
What a satisfying turn of events that I now get to craft these stories instead of being a character at another writer’s will?
I have loved reading since that time and when I discovered creative writing in first grade- you know, when they have you write stories in those blank laminated cardboard books- I fell in love with it as it relates to reading. People love books and stories that pull them in so deep they can’t hear the people around them, and they feel like they have met the characters in their own life. My heart burns when a book makes me laugh or cry and I crave the skill to do the same. Here’s some practice for now.
