As always, I have been writing. I'm 24,000 words into my next novel! I've mostly been writing papers about Columbine for my Comp 100 class and working on my Senior Memory Book for English.
For those of you who don't know, every senior in my high school has to write a memory book. It's about ten chapters long with an epilogue, prologue, and some reflections. While mine aren't particularly funny, I thought I would share two of my favorite chapters with you. They're a little piece of me, which some of you might not get to see that often.
So. Onward.
Chapter Five
“The Loves of My
Life”
In the beginning, I wrote about raindrops and hearts
with a thick, pink Crayola crayon. It was my first story. Ten years later, two
days after my fifteenth birthday at about two in the morning, I wrote the
epilogue of my first novel, bleary eyed and more proud of myself than I’ve ever
been. Last weekend, I wrote one of my most favorite short stories I’ve ever
written.
Since
I was five years old I have loved many things. Some, like ballet or karate,
were short flings. Some, like a boy with twinkling blue eyes and a crooked
smile, would last much longer. While I have fallen in love, and out of love,
with many different things in my life, one love has always remained steadfast.
At five years old I embarked on my journey with writing, and my life has never
been the same. I fell head over heels in love with writing, and it has been one
of my greatest adventures.
As
a little girl, I began to love writing more and more because I was not
satisfied with the books I read. They never ended the way I wanted them to, so
I decided to just write my own stories. For quite a few years, whenever I had
free time I would be glued to the computer, furiously typing away at one of my
stories. The click-clack of the keys and my mother’s soft voice would fade away
into a sweet oblivion. I would lose myself in a story. And it was perfect. I
would spend cold afternoons wrapped around one of my tattered notebooks,
scratching away page after page until my palms were tinted gray from pencil lead.
I never stopped writing. It’s a part of me. I have literally gotten out of the
shower while washing my hair to write down a poem in my head, woken up after a
dream and immediately written it down for later use, and have written an entire
novel influenced by the pure, sweet smell of a spring rain shower.
You
see, writing isn’t just my favorite thing to do. It is so much more than that.
It is my escape. I believe every word I’ve ever written existed since the
moment I first pressed that crayon to that crumpled computer paper. Every
character I’ve ever created has always been wrapped up in my mind, pounding on
the walls and begging to be freed. And when I free them, when I lose myself in
a piece, I am finally able to be me. When I write I am not unsure or afraid of
who I am. I’m not worried about pleasing anyone; I’m not worried about anything
except how I am telling Rai, Liam, or Canaan’s story. Whenever I write, I am
truly happy. Writing defines who I am.
Looking
back, I know that falling in love with writing has been the best thing that has
ever happened to me. Writing is my ability to create, to free my soul, to
understand the world and how I fit into it. Words hold my mind captive. Stories
unfold in my dreams. I find inspiration everywhere. I am a writer. In this
world, lovers may come and go, but I will always know my love of writing will
remain, and for that I am thankful.
Chapter Three
Suddenly I
Became Me
When
I was a little girl, my mom read somewhere that reading to children will
promote a love of reading throughout their life. Every night after that my
mother read to me before I went to sleep. We went through boxes of books. By
the time I was ready for Kindergarten, my mom had read me the equivalent of a
library.
It
was a surprise to my mother when she got the call from my teacher stating that
I was refusing to learn how to read. For the past four years she had been
reading book after book to me. She knew I loved being read to. She had done
everything right and there I was, refusing to learn how to read as a
kindergartener. That night, instead of pulling out a book to read, my mother
sat down beside me on the bed, a frown on her face. She watched as I arranged
all the blankets and pillows around us in a little nest, smiling slightly. When
I was satisfied with our nest, I looked at her expectantly.
Instead
of starting to read like I had expected, my mom asked me why I didn’t want to
read books by myself. I shrugged, avoiding her brown eyes. “Don’t you like
reading?” she prompted me lightly, sounding confused.
I
nodded emphatically, looking down at the tattered book in my small hands. The Salamander Room. We had read it
dozens of times; I knew every word by heart. My mother tried to approach the
issue from a different angle. Besides being read to, I also had a love of
listening to cassette tapes. I would listen to Adventures in Odyssey, a
Christian radio drama series, every night and whenever we were in the car. “When
you listen to Adventures in Odyssey do you picture it in your head? Do you see
what color the characters eyes are?” My mother asked curiously. Oh, yes. I
nodded, smiling broadly. I definitely had an active imagination, then. Finally,
something clicked in my mom’s mind.
“If
you learn to read we can still read together every night, Gabbers,” she
promised, her brown eyes searching mine. My small body seemed to relax visually
and her eyes softened even more. I had not wanted to learn how to read because
I was afraid my mom wouldn’t read to me at night anymore. I loved when my
mother read to me. It was one of my favorite parts of the day. I looked up at
her and grinned. Satisfied, my mother wrapped a blanket around me and took the
book from my hands. I snuggled up against her and we got lost inside of the
book.
The
next day my mother got another call from my teacher. Apparently, I had picked
up a book and just started reading. And I would not stop. It was a surprise, my
teacher noted, but a good one. After that I was always reading. I devoured book
after book. Reading was the only thing I ever wanted to do, really. Soon, I
even started writing my own books. My creative journey was just beginning and
it was far from over. Reading has defined me throughout my life. I’m a
voracious reader. It’s who I am. After
that night with my mom, I started reading and I became me.
Even
so, every night without fail, I would fall asleep in my mother’s arms, the
words from whatever story she was reading being a lullaby to my ears.
I hope you are all okay out there, especially those of you affected by the recent tornado. If you or someone you know are going through a tough time after the tornado, let me know! You're all in my prayers.
Well, have a great day!
-Gabs
