From the time I was walking, I was writing.
Of course it may have been scribbles, undecipherable loops and swirls, but it was a start. I would sit for hours at my little, white desk, complete with colored- pencil marks and chipped paint. I would compose stories; try my hand at drawing, which I never improved, (because I still draw like a five year old.)
My first grade teacher, Mrs. Zimmerman, was a tall, spidery, thin lady with bleach blonde hair and translucent blue eyes. She was my starting inspiration and my mentor. She was wise and patient when I had a ridiculous question, fair and understanding when I called her, “mommy” in front of the entire class, my cheeks becoming two bright red roses.
She encouraged us to write, every day we were to write for ten minutes. And then we would share our stories. My hand was always the first one up and her smile always warmed my heart when I finished.
By the time I was in third grade, I was writing what my mother would come to call, “epic tales”, for they usually consisted of twenty or more hand-written pages. My teacher, Mrs. Baker, would always take the time to read every single page, editing and making suggestions. Because she was a mean woman, who once made me cry, I was wary and careful around her, the way a matador dances around an angry bull. Although I did not like her, she was also an inspiration for she strived for me to reach grammatically correct goals. Because of her, from then on, I was always very meticulous with my spelling, the class know-it-all, but I took pride in my particular ways and that was all that mattered. My classmates came to recognize my “voice” when stories were anonymously read aloud. I looked forward to the praise from my teachers and friends, who found me mature and intelligent, but didn’t fully understand this blooming passion. Other children groaned at our prompts while I grinned and burned my hand across the page, words traveling from my brain to my pencil like an electric shock. I liked to write, because I liked to watch people’s expressions as they read on; how excited, how sad, how confused. But oh, how, intrigued they were, because they always kept reading.
Writing to me is like water for all living things. We need it to survive, as I need writing to live so fervently. As a famous man once said, “’If I do not write to empty my mind I go mad.’” This is true in many ways, ways only writers can understand.
Writing to me is my childhood. It’s the people around me, the different emotions I enjoy toying with, like a child with wet clay, sitting and shaping and molding, creating a masterpiece. Writing to me is like breathing. It is like the sun, my words cannot be contained.
If you are reading this, I want you to know that I tried to help you imagine my life. I tried to let you see a small brunette child, sitting in her toy room, scrubbing out her eraser and documenting the dreams in her mind. I want you to know that I tried to reach inside you and tickle your emotions, attempting to arouse them. They’re very lovely; by the way, all of your feelings, especially your happiness, which sometimes is a challenge for me to stimulate. Sadness is always easier to provoke, something I learned at a young age and always believed to be true. But really, I’m not so sure anymore. People don’t need any more heartrending words in their lives.
And lastly I want you know that I’m pleased you’re still reading. A writer’s greatest challenge is to write something interesting, I think. I’m thrilled you made it to the end, and I encourage you to read more. Read lots, read everything, from every writer. Soak up all the words you can, because you will always find beauty in them.