In a perfect world, I could just sit in front of my laptop and just tap away. In a perfect world, I could walk around the city and find a quiet coffee shop and just scribble away. In a perfect world, I would be paid to read books, write about them, or write them.
I’ve always wanted to write. I remember I started writing a journal when I was 9. I wrote my first school play then. I had a journal that I religiously wrote in. Every day. When I was in high school, when people didn’t like me because I spoke English all the time, I retreated to pen and a brown Hello Kitty notebook. I wrote poems that didn’t rhyme. I wrote my thoughts down. I wrote to understand my feelings and I wrote so I could cope with the rejection and the pained angst that only a thirteen year old could feel.
When I was lonely, I retreated to my first friends. Books. They took me away. They entertained me. They made me laugh. They taught me things. The summer I turned fifteen, I wrote my first book. I stayed in that summer because I was nursing a broken heart because that year my grandfather died. I retreated into a world that I created in a composition notebook so that I wouldn’t really have to think about it. My little sister found the notebook years later and she read it. She said it was good.
When I was a teenager, religiously pouring through the pages of Seventeen magazine, I wanted to work for a fashion magazine. I wanted to write for a fashion magazine. I knew I wasn’t fashion-forward enough to put the clothes and the fashion-y things together. But I knew my words and I knew I could put them together well enough. Oh to be young again, and to be that confident, eh? If I’m going to allow myself to be honest, in my heart of hearts, I still probably want to do that. That’s probably why I loved watching that reality TV show Running In Heels.
I wish I were as brave as I was when I was fifteen. I’ve had a lot of starts. I’ve had a lot of story outlines written. But I’ve never really finished anything. Maybe because who I am as a writer has been diluted by everything I’ve read. Maybe because I’ve allowed myself to be distracted and awed by the myriad of authors whose writing amazes me.
In a perfect world, people would pay to read the things that I write so that I could write for a living. In a perfect world, I am able to write my words down and finish telling my stories.