First Memories of Writing

As long as I could remember, as long as I could hold a crayon, I’ve been a writer. Any time I saw a piece of media I liked, my first impulse was to recreate it with my own meager talents. I was an artist first- scribbling down formless drawings of characters from my favorite book or TV show, then dictating to my mom the words she should write above them. Then once I learned to write, I would be the one jotting down stories above the doodles with my chicken scratch handwriting, complete with backwards Rs and mixing up “d” and “b”. I invented crazy tales for picture books and chapter books, all full of inside jokes only my cousins and I knew. Some of them were funny, but mostly they were unashamed copycats of characters that already existed and occasionally plot-lines that had already been run to the ground with overuse. Care Bears and Ponies often featured in these early pieces. Of course, as most first attempts at writing are, these stories were pretty bad. Objectively bad. My mom bound my many volumes in copy-store plastic rings anyway, and they’re still sitting under my bed at home, collecting dust. Sometimes, when I need a reminder of how far I’ve come, I’ll look at them and laugh and cringe.

I think my stories started to become actually imaginative somewhere around 4th or 5th grade. I started to make my own characters instead of using Princess Peach from Mario, My Little Ponies, Pokemon, and other mainstays of my childhood. As opposed to the toys I owned that already had shows or movies or video games, I would write about my regular stuffed animals and invent entire sagas based on their lives. Horses used to be my favorite animal, and I had a plethora of stuffed horses. However, I also had cats, dogs, bunnies, wolves, a giraffe, and various other members of the animal kingdom lying around my room. They became the focus of my creative imagination. Inventing a personality for each animal wasn’t enough; soon they had backstories, families, even allergies and birthdays. Those years were glorious. Though my dreams for the future still hadn’t solidified, and I oscillated between wanting to be a baker or a fairy princess, I couldn’t imagine a life without writing.

Once I finally went to an actual school, in 6th grade, my stuffed animal days were mostly over. I didn’t have the time to sit around and play once I’d done my work for the day, because there was always more homework to do. While I loved going to the Sheridan Japanese School, and though it was a creative charter instead of a public school, I struggled. I’d been homeschooled all my life and didn’t know how to deal with the constant pressure and orders from teachers. Socializing was another problem entirely, one I didn’t learn how to deal with for a couple of years. However, Language Arts class was my haven. Anytime we would receive a creative writing assignment, I would do it with enthusiasm and ease. I flourished.

I remember my excitement at learning how to type. Knowing that now I would be able to put more words on a page, faster than ever, excited me. Though I still struggled with deadlines and wasn’t used to school completely, I think that Language Arts and its writing homework fueled my determination to stay in school. Not only the creative fiction assignments, but even short middle school essays were enjoyable. I remember having particular fun writing an expository essay about how to cook macaroni and cheese. Adjectives were my best friends, and accurately conveying a thought from my brain to paper was the most satisfying thing I’d ever done. My brain wildly jumped from one writing prompt to the next. With every short story I wrote, I knew I could write at least twenty more pages on the same. I wrote about superheroes, magical worlds you could reach through a school locker, mysterious shoeboxes left under beds, and occasionally my stuffed animals would make a reappearance. I wrote essays on current events, wrote thoughtful responses to famous quotes, wrote ridiculous answers to traditional writing prompts such as “if you were stranded on a desert island, what three items would you bring with you?” Writing took over my thoughts and I loved every second of it.

When teachers began to ask the question “what do you want to be when you grow up,” I finally found the word that would let me write as much as possible. Author. Since 6th grade, my answer to that question has been, “I want to be an author” or “I want to be a writer.” My English teachers Arthurs-sensei and McLay-sensei, bless their hearts, encouraged my dream for all it was worth, and so that dream has begun to come full circle. I am an English major at George Fox, learning from authors and literary scholars and writers, and my dreams continue to follow the same general path. Though there are a few more realistic dreads of adult life and pit stops along the way, knowing that it won’t be easy to accomplish every dream I’ve ever wanted, that doesn’t stop me. I have wanted to write for most of my life, and that desire hasn’t left. Writing is my passion, and I can’t see that ever changing. I want to be an author.