My life is the outcome of tattered paper, over-used pens, and a cramped right hand.

I sit on my bed writing about my cousins playing a half court of basketball with two gallons of warm water on the side in the hot, humid, hellish heat. There was a time when I would join them, but that was before we all “grew up”. We played games of “tag”; “throw up, tackle”, our version of football free-for-all; “fifty”, our basketball free-for-all; and kickball until our mothers called us in because it was too late in the night. After a while, everything gradually transitioned from friendly game play to competitive sports—sports I either didn’t understand or did not like. The more they played sports, the more I stayed in my house and read. I rarely came outside.

I have read books from horror to modern day fantasy and everything in between. Books gave me a place where I could escape. I could always go to a place where everything would work out for the better when real life circumstances were not looking too attractive. At times, I wished that books could come true—preferably for my life. I envied how characters got their desired life that their author created; I wanted a life I could create.

However, in order to create a life, one has to know how to create. I began to pay more attention in English class, took Journalism and Creative Writing classes to pick up on writing structures and styles, and demonstrated my gained knowledge for anyone who wanted to see. I soon wrote the first chapter of my second life. From that first chapter came the second, then the third, and so on until I had completed my new life. Yes, it had a lot of kinks and errors throughout, but the overall work was complete.

Mark Twain once wrote that “there is little difference between a man who won’t read and a man who can’t read.” As I grow older, I think more and more young adults who do not like reading and do not understand the mystic nature of writing, do not fully appreciate the English language. I, on the other hand, while still confused about some English literature, am still fascinated by the fact that our language is comprised of so many other languages and cultures. I try to keep a transcendentalist outlook on life—looking forward to the mixture of oranges, reds, pinks, and yellows each morning.
I know that whatever direction my life goes, it will be the outcome of tattered paper, over-used pens, and a cramped right hand.