Tuesday, August 23, 2011
it is necessary to write, if the days are not to slip emptily by.
I remember when I knew I wanted to be a writer. I was eleven, maybe twelve. Though I had always liked writing things - songs, poems, and short stories, this time was different.
My mom had an old electric typewriter she kept in the basement. One weekend in the middle of summer, I got my dad to drag it upstairs. We had a computer, but there was something special about writing on that typewriter. It was as if the angry buzzing from the machine and the way it vibrated against the table, made my words stronger.
I remember sitting in the dining room, the machine whirring with energy, and the sound of the keys snapping to life with each word I wrote. The door was closed - solitude. It was just me, that typewriter, and the story I yearned to tell.
I spent the entire day locked in that room. My fingers barely paused until I had finished writing my story. Once I did, I was consumed by emotion - a combination of immense satisfaction and the pure joy of the writing process. My life has not been the same since.
Like a lot of children, I wanted to be a basketball player or a ballerina when I grew up. Until the day I spent locked in the dining room writing about a princess and magical locket, when I discovered that I was meant to be a writer.
All of these years later, I am still reaching for the same goal. Some days it feels further than ever. But other days, days like today, I remember being that little girl with the big dream, and I see how far I have come.