When I was younger, my biggest dream and ambition was to become an author. I don’t know why, I guess it was one of those innate visions many people have that often dictate their life’s path. I use to read every day as a child and even saved my monthly allowance to buy a new Goosebumps or Fear Street, yes R.L. Stine was my biggest and favorite author. The highlight of my weekend was going to thrift stores or book fairs and to this day, that is exactly what I love to do.
In my teens, I began writing my first short stories and I remember being so enthusiastic about it. We didn’t have a computer back in those days so everything I wrote was long hand, every single page. I wrote my first book by 18 and years later when I typed it, it came to 60,000 words.
When I started college, I remember standing up in the class (that dreadful meet and greet on the first day) and telling everyone that I’m 18, I love to read and I have a new book that I plan to have published within the year. My professor nodded, acknowledging what an accomplishment that was but now that I look back, she was being nice, encouraging even. After all, back then, I had no idea of the hurdles of becoming a published author. I had written my first book by the time I was 18, sent numerous inquiry letters to publishers and agents- all were denied. I still have those letters and I cringe to look at them. It’s funny how that works. You don’t realize why back then but you see why now. I was a kid, writing as a kid. Of course no one took me seriously. When I look at my earlier writings, I still cringe, like “OMG I can’t believe I wrote that” or “This word order makes no sense” Still, I keep them because it reminds me of my youth and ignorance. We are so ambitious being young that reality makes no mention in our dreams. We see only one goal and not the obstacles that are in the way. I didn’t know that it was practically impossible to make it through to the big publishers and the big time literary agents. After a few years, I matured and put writing on the back burner.
Creative writing has always been a passion but figured, if you can’t make money, why pursue it? Fast forward some 15 years later, and I am back at square one. That’s also the funny thing, you can’t truly escape what you love to do, even when you consume your life in a different path, that love is just nestling in the waters, waiting for you to let it back up. The only difference between now and almost two decades ago is, writer’s block. Ideas use to flow through my mind, never had I had to stop to think what I’m writing or think of how to develop my characters. When I use to buy notebooks to write my stories in and allocate time after school to write, I now can’t even open the laptop or when I do, I’m just staring at the screen. The fresh ideas, the imagery, the vivid of my imagination seems to not flow as freely as it did. It’s truly odd because, when I only stopped writing years ago because I couldn’t make money, now I could care less about the money and just want to write. This thing called life I am still trying to figure out.