Today mommy took me and my sister to the library to return books and get new ones. We come here every saturday and it’s my favorite thing to do because there are so many books to choose from! I’m doing the summer reading challenge so hopefully I will read more books than last year. And because there’s no more school, I get to read as much as I want to. I already know where the kids section is. I dont even wait for Mommy before going in side. When mommys returning our books I get to pick out more. Im reading Nancy Drew so Im getting more. I really like mystery books because I get to try and guess who did it. I even keep a list of clues, suspects and who did it so that I remember which ones I read. I want to read them all. I want to take all of them home and read them and then go back and get more forever. I wish I could keep them all so I can read them all over again! Maybe one day I’ll have my own library.
Anyways, time to go read!
I’m having a hard time with my friends. I don’t know who they are anymore. None of them are in my class so the only time I can see them is during recess, but whenever I ask to hang out with them, they tell me they just want to hang out with each other. Then I go ask the next pair of friends and they say the same thing. Is this just a coincidence?
They’ve been doing this every recess, always hanging out with someone else but me. Why can’t I join? All they do is walk around the perimeter of the schoolyard and talk. I don’t know what they talk about but I hope it’s not about me. Maybe that’s why I can’t hang out with them? I even asked if I can just walk with them. I promised not to even say a word but that wasn’t good enough for them.
No one wants to play with me so I sit all alone in the schoolyard and just watching everyone else having fun. My friends walk by me and sometimes I meet their gaze but they don’t say anything. I pretend to ignore them but once they’re out of sight, I let myself cry. Maybe someone else will come and talk to me but no one ever does. Everyone seems to have someone but me.
Mommy says it’ll get better. She told me to find something else to do but I don’t know what. I wish I had friends.
I’ve started reading during recess now. Normally I would read on the bus but I felt risky and took my book outside, even though it’s cold and it’s that time of the year where it starts to snow. When I went outside, I found a remotely sunny area to sit in. Even though I was all alone, I enjoyed it. I didn’t even really feel alone because I had my book to keep me company. It was like talking to a friend, except I didn’t do much of the talking. Instead I listened, but I liked listening because my book had something interesting to say. I don’t remember how many pages I read through the span of recess but it felt like a lot to me, which is good because I’m a slow reader. I didn’t even care when I saw my friends walk past me as usual, looking like they’re gloating their time together without me. I think they do it on purpose now but I don’t care anymore. In fact, I was glad that they saw me because I wanted them to. I wanted to show them that I didn’t need them anymore. I’ve even stopped asking them to hang out with me because I know what their answer will be. If they wanted to exclude me, then I was excluding them too. I had a new friend with me, my only friend but the only friend I really need.
Because books won’t leave you behind. Books are always there for you. In your hands, in your heart and in your brain.
It’s déjà vu all over again. I’ve lost my friends again. This time it’s not them secretly plotting to eliminate me from the friend group (if that was even the case). No, this time they’ve been swallowed up by the “popular” kids. It’s not that I don’t like them, but they’re just not the type of people I want to hang around. They’re not my type, we don’t have anything in common really. But one thing I don’t like about them is that, ever since my friends started hanging out with that crowd, they’ve been acting different. It’s like that group changed them for the worse and I don’t recognize them anymore. I thought things would be different, better even, but I guess not.
I should have known these friends wouldn’t be permanent. I knew I felt them slipping away from me but I was always in denial. I was hopeful. I didn’t realize that it was actually a warning sign, foreboding what’s to come (I learned that word in English class today. Seemed appropriate to use).
Speaking of English, today I’m on my fourteenth reading log! I always get a dirty look of disbelief from Mrs. when I ask for more, like she doesn’t believe me, but hey, what else am I supposed to do when I have an hour of recess everyday? Sit all alone and not read?
I’ve been inspired by the books I read to start writing my own. I’ve always like that idea of making up stories and I think I might be good at it. I think it’ll be pretty cool to write my own books and then be able to read them during recess, or see them in my classroom, or in the school library and just think to myself, I wrote that. That’s mine. I already have a book idea in my head but I’m not going to tell you just yet, but here’s a hint: it’s a secret.
I’m so happy because the coolest thing happened. I was home alone, humming a tune (don’t ask me where I heard this tune, it kind of just came to me) and then out of nowhere, I began to add lyrics that rhymed, right on the spot. Again, I don’t know where these words came from or how they came to me … they just did. It was like a song that was stuck in my head, except I’ve never heard any of it before, and as I belted these lyrics out repeatedly, I made sure to write them down so that I’ll never forget them.
I don’t know how to explain this poem (I’ve decided to make it a poem, not a song, because I’m not much of a singer) other than it simply being perfection. Okay, it might not be that perfect but to me it is, I mean, the words flowed so nicely out of my mouth, like someone else was speaking for me. The rhymes fit so well with each other, like pieces to a puzzle. It was like a message sent from some creative divine spirit, someone like Apollo or Dionysus, and it was specifically sent just to me. Even the subject matter perfectly related to me. I love when something creative comes to me, dare I say, so easily. It makes me feel proud and special in my own way, like I was born with writing and creative superpowers. Here’s the poem, by the way:
I love to read, oh yes I do!
I love to read, oh yes it’s true!
I love to read, you can watch me too.
Oh I really love to read.
I read on the toilet, reading page by page,
When I’m at school or at an arcade.
You have to hear what my parents would say:
My mother says, “It has to stop.”
My father says that that is enough.
My sister says “Don’t read, don’t read”
“Too bad I love to read!”
I want to be an author. I have never felt so sure about anything else. It feels like a life or death situation, like I’ll either live my life as an author and actress, or I’ll die trying.
I guess I’ve always known that’s what I wanted to do. I’ve been walking aimlessly along a path that I knew where it’ll take me. It was instinctive, like a map programmed into the back of my head. I’ve been given these directions, these voices in my head that’s been leading me to my destination. I have found my passion, my calling, and it’s something that I won’t ignore. I can’t ignore it anymore. All my meaningful memories stem from reading and writing. Every book I read, every story I wrote, not to mention every character I wanted to be … they were foretelling signs.
I was always a curious one when it came to books. I wanted to read any book because I saw them each as unique worlds I was willing to discover, and with an active imagination, I wanted to produce the same material. Let me just say that I’ve attempted many stories with incomplete results. I tried writing a screenplay that I wanted to star in when I was 9, I planned to write my own mystery series at 10, I wanted to make my own children’s picture book at 6 (I remember drawing the illustrations for it late at night but I haven’t found the papers for it … I could have sworn it happened though. I remember it too vividly for it not to be true). I even bought a notebook at 9 where I tried rewriting the Harry Potter series by introducing a new character, which was supposed to be an alter ego of myself (I didn’t even realize I was creating a fanfiction at the time). Though I do see these attempts as failures, one thing that I’ve succeeded in doing is never giving up. Even when I have a new story idea, it may seem like I’m giving up on an old idea, but I am still trying to reach the same end goal. I have stories that I want to tell, characters I want the world to meet and adventures that are yet to be embarked on.
I want my stories to have the same positive and inspiring impact on others, just like books had on me. I want to entertain people, put a smile on their faces, make them fall in love with characters and tear them away from them. I want to be just like the authors that I’ve looked up to all my life, the ones who always leave me wanting more. The ones who come up with the most brilliant and fascinating stories, the ones who make me take a moment to think about how intelligently creative they are and make me wonder, how the heck they do it.
I wish I could be just as intelligently creative. I don’t know how else to explain it, but writers are like gods. They rule their own lands in the pages of their books, in the stories and characters they create with ink. They have some sort of supernatural, otherworldly powers that brings these stories to life.
It sounds a little crazy to say you want to be a god, but in a way, that’s what creators are. So maybe I just want to be a god, but in my own head. I want that power and control over my imagination. I want to bring fictional worlds to life and the people inside of them too.
I want to be a writer. I want to be a ruler of my own lands, of my own books.
I just had the strangest dream that I can’t seem to get out of my mind. The thing is, I don’t want it to. I’m sitting on my bed right now, replaying this dream, these visions that dance around in my brain. I’m wondering how on Earth this dream came to me. Is it from a movie? A book that I read? I’m not sure.
I do vaguely remember listening to the “Suspiria” theme song before I went to bed. Could that be the reason? But whatever I dreamt didn’t come from the movie, that’s for sure. It’s something I’ve never seen before and I don’t think there’s anything out there like this. I don’t know how to explain it, it just came to me. It’s a gift, in more ways than one. It’s a message, a calling I can’t ignore.
Oh my God, did I honestly make the entire dream up on my own?!?!?!
On a separate piece of paper, I’m writing down my dream, the main scenes that are pivotal and that I remember. I’m switching between the both of you because I want to keep you up-to-date on the progress I’m making.
As I’m writing it, I’m coming up with ideas, plot points, background information, characters … anything that’s adding a third dimension to my dream. I’m starting to see a bigger picture, I can feel it growing stronger and powerful by the second. It’s like the story is unfolding right in front of me, and with it, a purpose is passed down to me. I am the sole bearer of this story, and it’s my job to pass it along, to share it with the world ….
And I know just the way.
I can’t believe I finished writing my very first manuscript today. Yes, that actually happened. After 10 years of trying to write a full-length story, I managed to finally write one in two years. The book is 800 pages (yes, that’s right), but I’ve decided to split it into two books, which means I’ve already written my first two books. I’ve been thinking about where I’m going to end the first part and how the second one will pick up. I found a spot with a nice cliff hanger that will hopefully intrigue readers’ attentions. Now that writing the book is done, my next step is to get it published. That, and writing the third book in the series (but with my luck, I’m probably going to have to split that into two books too).
It feels so surreal to be done writing a story, from start to finish. It’s one thing to plot out what happens but it’s another to fully develop it into an actual narrative. I think about the journey, the late nights I spent writing, the frustration on my dad’s face when he complained that all I did was sit and write, the times I shut myself out from anyone to be with the characters in my head, the endless doubt in the back of my mind and the many tears I’ve shed to evoke a mixed variety of emotions… and this is just the beginning.
But I’ve come so far, the farthest I’ve gone in terms of writing a novel, and I don’t want to just stop now. I have so much faith in this child that I can’t wait to see it grow. I don’t want it to be just a thought planted inside my head.
It will happen. I will make it happen, because I have found my sole purpose in this life.
Where do I even begin?
It’s the New Year and I’ve decided to take a look back on my life, like if I had to write a narrative on my life, what events would I write to encompass my so-called journey? How would I write it? How did I even end up here? I’m taking the time to do this now before the craziness of school starts all over again.
One thing I have to say is that I would not be where I am today without my books (this might be silly but since you’ve been with me for a long time, you know how powerful this statement is). I probably wouldn’t even be studying English right now in university, trying to make a future for myself as a writer.
I can not tell you how thankful I am to be a reader, to have the childhood I had where books were so present in my life—and they still are. They are my friends, they are my children, they mean the world to me and they are my world. I can’t imagine a life without books. They have shaped me into the person that I am today.
So I haven’t been able to read my 200 or so books in my closet (and the number keeps growing, especially after buying 6 books over the Winter Break—oops, sorry, not sorry) or even glance at my manuscript since the summer, but it doesn’t mean I haven’t stopped thinking about them or the anticipation of what these stories will bring to me. And I know this always sounds a little crazy by how much I praise books, as if they were some life-saving device that came to me in a desperate and fatal time of need, but they’ve saved my life in a metaphorical sense. They did other things for me that I will always be indebted for.
They stayed with me when others didn’t. They helped me discover my interests and passions. They inspired me to be the person that I am today, and they keep inspiring me to pursue my dreams, to achieve things I want to achieve. They unleashed my creative spirit as a writer and an artist.
But most importantly, they saved me from living in a dull, boring reality.
My life would have never been the same without books. I wouldn’t have discovered this fictional universe, the door to escapism, where I can slip between fiction and reality and do what I please. I feel like an explorer sometimes, like I’ve discovered something magical, just for me.
I guess, all I can really say, is this: I’ve spent all my life in one place, and though I may not sound adventurous, I have witnessed many things and felt a thousand times pain, joy, sadness, fear and heartbreak. I have visited more than one world and traveled through time. I met the most amazing people and the cruelest of them all. I live through the books I read and the journeys they take me on … one day, I hope my stories can do the same for other readers like me.