The way in which change can be truly amazing. While I know that “one person” is not the definition of “people,” I’d like to use myself as an example.
During my childhood, I was the kind of person who might occasionally pick up a book for a few days, but somehow it would get lost among my other things, or I would simply get tired of reading it, and my book would go days, weeks, or even months without being opened; rarely did I ever finish a book. However, I was no stranger to writing stories.
I’d written my fare share of short stories – fantasy stories with dragons, knights, and magic – that were inspired by whatever video game I happened to be playing. I almost reached novel range with on particular story. I would always brag, (that’s a poor word to use), to my friends about how I was working on a story that was over 30 pages in length, at 8 point font – Arial Narrow. But, I lost that story, which at the time upset me greatly. That’s the price I paid for not backing it up on my flash drive. But I digress.
After that, I always thought I could never write another story of that length, or I thought I didn’t have the time. Plus, I was still “finding myself,” into about my third year of college. I was actively writing on Runner’sWorld.com’s “The Loop,” a personal blog where you can talk about your running, experiences you have while running, and other things to keep you inspired to continue your running. It was after this that I decided I wanted to be a sports writer, and write for Runner’s World Magazine.
But, that ended quickly.
During my first semester at Brockport, my second college, I started writing for The Stylus, which is Brockport’s student-run newspaper. I wrote for the sports section, but as a commuter I never had the time to actually attend any Brockport sporting events, nor did I really watch any professional sports, due to my lack of cable television. So, I wrote about what I knew: Mixed Martial Arts. This went okay for a while, but I don’t think the students cared much for it, so my journalism, and my writing in general slowed down.
*Here comes the cliche* – But then, I had a dream. Literally, I had a dream. I only remember one particular part of the dream, where I was in a shack being chased by very tall, pale men. They wore black suits, black hats, and drove a simple, small, white hatchback car. They wanted me for some reason, and someone was trying to keep me in hiding. The particular shack we were hiding in had two old people – a man and a woman – and their dogs, which were covered in blood that I assumed was their own, but they were alive and happy. Somehow, this inspired me to write my first novel.
So, I set out writing. I opened my laptop and started clicking away at my keyboard. Somehow, I managed to turn that sliver of my dream into a decently coherent story, and a few months later I had finished my first manuscript: ESTRA Corp.. After that, I was positive that I wanted to be a writer.
I always feel joy, pride, whatever you may want to call it when someone asks me what I do, and I tell them, “I’m a writer.” I always feel like that impresses people, mainly because they give me the reaction and impression that they have been thoroughly impressed. One guy even told me that he didn’t expect me to say that because, according to him, most kids my age don’t want to do anything with their lives. And, in my particular town, that is the case sometimes.
So, therefore, I am truly intrigued at just how much I have changed over the years. Changing from someone who picked up a book on occasion, and would read maybe a chapter every few days, to someone who has developed an immense passion for literature, has written the manuscript for one novel, is currently working on another and has decided to go to graduate school for creative writing.