There are just a few things that I’ve wanted to do my whole life: tell stories, write, travel, read, and learn. The older I get, the more I realize life is short and doing the things which make me happy, are worth the extra time and effort. Even if that means sacrificing something else.
For as long as I can remember. I’ve wanted to live the kind of life, which allotted me stories to tell for years to come. Adventure, love, mystery, and everything in between. I wanted to be able to tell a story that made someone cry from laughter or cry with sorrow. I wanted to offer comfort, a familiar voice, and something that caused emotions to stir through my stories. I wanted, to tell the truth, my truth.
Books have always been a huge part of my life. Being lost in their pages for a few minutes or a few days has never lost its appeal. Some of my fondest memories revolve around books, reading, going to signings and meeting the people who created these worlds I could escape in. When Disney’s Beauty and The Beast came out, I remember being so jealous that Bell had a library bigger than my whole house. To this day, I judge a home based on its ability to house a library of books.
While I’ve been writing stories since I was in the third grade, I think it was the fifth grade when it occurred to me that I could write stories for a living. It could be that thing I did for the rest of my life – when I became a fated grown-up. So that’s what I’ve been doing for most of my life. I write stories.
The first book I ever wrote was of evil cinderella and her extremely kind stepsisters. After that was another fairytale retelling of the naughty three pigs and the big fluffy wolf. I read them to the kindergarten and first-grade classes. I was enthralled and couldn’t get enough. I’ve been obsessed with writing and finding that high ever since.
I write for two reasons. One, because I have to, for me. I do it because I know I can. I have a strong voice and an obsession to see myself succeed. I’ll learn, perfect, and sacrifice everything until I know for certain, I’ve got what it takes to be a traditionally published author. Writing is my oldest relationship, to stop cold turkey would mean destroying dreams and shattering my heart.
The second reason is because I want to change other people’s minds. I want to move someone to such emotions that they hold my book dear to their hearts the way I’ve held others dear to my own. They buy up extra copies to give to their friends because they want someone else to experience the same feeling. I want to change minds. I want to make people think. I want someone to read something of mine and I want them to be reminded of their family, friends, of a lost love. I want to give my audience a piece of themselves back, a piece of a new world, and a memory they can hold onto forever. Maybe that’s conceded, but
Maybe this is all a bit conceded. That’s okay, though. I read once that to be a great author, you have to be little conceded. You have to believe in yourself when no one else will. I write because it doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks, I know someday my own private library, regrettably, a fraction of Bell’s, will hold copies of my own books. And that is reason enough for me.