While other kids were dreaming of being astronauts or pilots or dancers or singers—acting out their dreams at any opportunity, I sat at a table, bent over with a pencil in hand, carving out awkwardly shaped letters to form words and basic sentences that eventually turned into stories. I loved creating characters and watching them come to life through my words. I breathed in new and exciting vocabulary, loving the sound they made on my lips and the glow they had on my wide-ruled paper.
Granted, my stories were not that good—but what Kindergartner’s stories are? Time wore on, school plastered more and more assignments into my life and I was torn away from that hallowed desk with sheaths of paper and endless supplies of pencils. Burying my nose in books, I was always intrigued and astonished by the skill of the writers I crossed. But alas, school was all I could afford to handle.
Some years later, I came across the land of roleplaying and dove in head-first, thrilled with the opportunity to create characters once more and watch them evolve before my eyes. I delighted in their quirks and the way they seemed to develop entirely on their own without any guidance from me. All I could do was tell their story.
But it seemed I had no time for that, either, as school once more washed over me and took me by force. I left that world, unable to keep up with the necessary pace so that everyone could happily enjoy. So I turned to blogging, where I could write what I wanted, when I wanted.
But it was not the same. It lacked the creative verve. It was a different kind of writing altogether. Introspective. Thoughtful. Reflective. Interesting, but all the same, dull.
My inspiration, my impulse to create—they both ebb and flow. I often wonder why this place does not reflect my lifelong dream of writing. I may not be skilled, I may never be skilled—but the only way to find out is to try.
If nothing else, I should at least make the time spent indoors instead of socializing as a child worth it—right?