Now that I’m finally over that wretched cold, I can get back to writing like a normal person. I felt like I had regained myself yesterday when I wrote a piece on something that was bothering me. I don’t ever remember actually writing that fast, then again, I was pretty fumed and ready to conquer the world with my fire blazed words. Nothing gets you back into things like a serious shock, right?

Or binge watching my favorite show. . .

Or adding some ice cream to that. . .

And maybe some chocolate. . .

Yesterday wasn’t at all a loss though. I met someone who I felt comfortable with talking to about my novel. In fact, in our class, our warm up exercise was to talk to a partner and then they would introduce us. We got onto the topic of creativity and I ended up telling her that I was writing a novel and what it was all about. She then told the class that I was writing a novel and the teacher asked what it was about. I do have to say, I froze on that part. Talking to one person about my novel is good, especially when I know they won’t take my work, but to a whole class who have their eyes trained on me, giving me those looks every aspiring writer hates. . .

That one look every person who isn’t published gets.

The look that says they are intrigued, but more so on how long your determination as a young person aspiring to write is going to last. It’s true I’m not in my thirties writing a book, when it seems many people who write begin their publishing career. In fact, I’ll only be reaching twenty in a few months. I do sometimes feel like an outsider, because I am surrounded by so many young people who say they’ll write a book and then never do.

And no, I am not looking down on the younger generation – my generation, I’m stating an observation. How many people on Pinterest have writing boards, aspire to be writers, and then forget about it years down the road. I have feared becoming one of those people, who say and say and say, but never do. That’s not a bad thing, I have done it, many times, but when it comes to writing, that’s where the fear lies.

I want to write a book, not for the world to make me famous, not to become the next big J. K. Rowling – heck, no one will ever replace her, and no one ever should, her imagination is too amazing to be replaced or forgotten. But, in the account of my own writing, I want to write to show myself that I can go through with things, that I can do something real, I can create worlds, and people to live in those worlds. I write to experience paradise in another universe, to escape this drowned out place filled with evil, and replace it with a different evil I know I can defeat.

Writing is something loved by a soul, it reaches in and grabs a person and takes them along on an unforgettable adventure. When I write, I write to go on an adventure. When I publish, I do so, to share my adventure with other people and hopefully, in return, receive a smile from those people.

As odd as it sounds.

That’s all I ask for.

A smile.

My story is still in progress, and as I write it, new things emerge I never thought about. I conjoin what I like into my rough draft, and I know that by the time I’m done, it’s going to a melting pot of thoughts. But that’s what a rough draft is for, right? To merge thoughts, then during the revisions, you pick out what I don’t like, keep what I do, and then go over it sixteen billion times until it all makes sense.

Writing is hard.

But I know it’ll be worth it when I finally get something out there for the world to see. To share my thoughts on paper, inked with twenty-six letters, all making a story that make someone smile, inspires them maybe, and makes me feel accomplished in something I’ve felt I loved even before I understood what it was.


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