Ever since I was young, I loved to read. Whenever my mom would pack up the books strewn all around the house, I would run up to her and ask, “Are we going to the library? Please, can I come?”
Sometimes the answer would be no, and she was just organizing the house, as mothers commonly do on a daily basis. I would be sad for a little while, until I got enveloped by one of the books she had just unearthed from beneath the couch. But when the answer was a yes, I would help her find all of the books that were scattered around the house. Sometimes, they were hidden under couch cushions, and other times, they were stuck under the fridge, gathering dust. My mom would rejoice about finding an overdue book, and I would rejoice as well, because I found what I read while we drove to the library. I would read any number of books. From mystery to science fiction, from fantasy to Lego books, nothing escaped my grasp.
But then middle school struck, and the joy of reading was beat right out of me. Reading became a chore, rather than something that was done for enjoyment. Even other students would pick on me for reading during study time. I would seldom pick up any book, unless I absolutely had to. Some books would intrigue me, and I would dip my feet back into the hostile waters of reading. But a couple of rude comments later, I would quickly retract my feet, the waters too rough to swim in.
However, the end of my sixth grade year brought to light a new talent. My teacher assigned us a project which made most of the class groan. We were given a simple task: writing poetry, a few of each different type that we had learned about in the past weeks. For some reason, I was really excited. I had never really written a lot before. A few paragraph assignments here and there while I was homeschooled, but that was about it. But this one project is what I credit my love for writing to. The next year, I started attending the writing club at school, and I had so much fun, just reading my own writing and listening to what others had to offer. Middle school opened a door to a world that was fresh and wonderful, a door that I would later utilize to bring myself back to where I was before, where I read with reckless abandon.
Throughout my high school years, I have slowly been getting back into reading. Sometimes, a fantasy novel will catch my eye, and I’ll immerse myself in the world for as long as possible, before reality beckons and I am forced to give myself up. Other times, I’ll pick up a psychological tale that will leave you thinking about the book long after you set it down for the night. I still don’t read as much as I should, and I really want to sit down and take time to immerse myself in the rich fantasy that is the Lord of the Rings, or the excruciating detail that is the Monster Blood Tattoo series.
As for writing, I try to write in the genres that I read. Therefore, most of my ideas tend to be fantasy or supernatural stories. None of them are finished yet, but they will be eventually. Creative writing dominates most of my writing time, and little bits of stories will be scattered throughout my journal, on pages that you can’t find easily. Current events rarely feature in my writing, but when they do, they are accompanied with my poetry, each line dripping with sarcasm.
Ideas come naturally, and nothing is sweeter than pure inspiration. Sometimes, I will be listening to one of my favorite songs, and an idea will spring up from the nether realms of my mind, just waiting to be nurtured into a blossoming story. However, for all these ideas, I find myself in a perpetual state of writer’s block. I will sit and stare at the screen of my computer for hours on end, wondering, “Can it really be this hard, to just write?” I imagine Mr. Tolkien, writing his Elven language in longhand. I imagine C.S Lewis walking back and forth from Oxford, the ideas circulating with each step. I imagine how these great writers defied reality itself, and transferred readers to a world of pure imagination and excitement.
I hope to change. I hope to become a better reader, and by a further extent, a better writer. I hope that I can find the will to jump back into the water, to dive in over my head.