When I was a child, I always had a bedtime story ready to go before getting into bed. Whether it was a reread of a classic like The Monster at the End of This Book, or something with a little more depth to it, my parents were always there to read me to sleep. I still remember it; the deep hum of my dad reading me a book about princesses and knights, or my mom snuggling me while she read about the 12-year-old detective. This nightly routine is what made me fall in love with storytelling.
As I grew older, I began to write my own stories. I wrote little stories about lactose-intolerant elephants who ate spaghetti (yes, I actually wrote that), and a lot of stories about my own life. I realized it was fun to create characters and fictional worlds of my own. I got an iPad for Christmas one year; I immediately installed a typewriter app and began what I thought was pure literary genius.
I started more stories than I could end as more and more ideas popped up in my mind begging to be set free.
In school, there weren’t many opportunities to be creative with my writing. I mostly wrote essays on novels or analyzed poems. That is, until sophomore year when I took a Creative Writing class. I was finally able to let my inner 8-year-old free again, and now she had some more mature ideas under her belt.
In my junior year, my high school introduced a new event––Writers’ Week. It was an opportunity for students and staff members to get on stage and reveal their works. I was thrilled! I had only shared my work in small classes, never in front of all my peers. I practiced for weeks, determined to perfect my performance.
After I shared at the event I was surprised by how many people came up to me in the following weeks to tell me how much they enjoyed my story. It felt good to finally reveal my “hidden” talent, and it felt good to be appreciated for it.
Senior year, no one was surprised to find out I planned on majoring in Creative Writing in college. Many friends of mine simply said, “Duh!” I was excited at the thought of making a living at my typewriter writing more adventures.
Now, I’m working feverishly to get my prerequisites out of the way. Soon I’ll be able to just focus on creative writing. I don’t know what kind of stories I have to tell, but maybe one day they’ll secretly inspire a kid reading a bedtime story