It was a common sight: my 6-year-old self pulling the tiny blue typewriter down off of the basement shelf and lugging it upstairs into an open space of living room carpet. Filling it with a pristinely white sheet of paper stolen from my brother’s computer printer and lining it up exactly right. Poking at the small black keys. I’d lay the latest edition of my elementary school’s newspaper out next to me and copy every single word for practice. I’d type my favorite poem from my favorite book and then tape it to the wall in a grand display. I’d make up my own stories, fantasies of princesses and dragons and knights in shining armor, all while rifling through the Merriam-Webster’s for any word I couldn’t spell.
I would read a story and immediately wonder what happened after “the end.” I rushed home after school to write down the day’s events in my tiny pink diary. I would take pages of notebook paper and staple them together and spend days drawing and writing on them to create my very own storybooks.
A teacher helped me unwrap the gift of words when I was in first grade by teaching me about the power of books, but she also told me that I had the passion and potential to create beautiful stories of my own.
That’s when I knew that writing was a passion running through my blood stream and that words made up the marrow of my bones. And ever since, I am able to get lost in the muck of letters and syllables and sentences that are churning in my head.
I’ll never stop picking up a pen. I’ll never stop pouring words out into moleskines, letting my thoughts be processed through ink on a page. Writing was never a choice, but a necessity, at first buried deep beneath other dreams until it emerged with the help of a little encouragement. And at the forefront it will stay, pumping relentlessly through the veins under my skin.
What’s the one thing you’ll never stop doing?