I’m always writing something. Ever since I was little, I’ve had a story in mind. I used to enjoy the minutes and hours between bedtime and actually falling asleep by making up stories. I’d whisper each line aloud to myself until my sister would come in and ask, “Who are you talking to?”
“No one!” I’d defend as if I were completely innocent. And then I’d start back again in a softer tone.
I did it with the little Bible that my mom gave me, too. It was a tiny little New Testament with a million words I couldn’t read at the age of five. But it had a picture on the front — they say a picture is worth a thousand words and I suppose it was for me. It was a picture of Jesus with the little children and I made countless stories about it. I’d flip through that little Bible in the wee hours following my bedtime, pretending to read.
I’ve had this longing for as long as I can remember. I think it was when my mom read us Little House On The Prairie by Laura Ingalls Wilder. “Laura wrote this about her life,” Mom told us. And I knew then that I wanted to do the same one day. And that was the beginning of ‘the book’ — I decided that some day, I’d write about my own life.
I planned the book from an early age. Narrating certain events in the third person was not uncommon for me. I used to imagine the covers and pictures for my future book. Would it be a series or just one giant novel? Oh, and it would be a novel, of course. Even though it would be autobiographical, I’d write it in novel form, as Laura had done. I wanted to make it interesting, but I wanted it to be about me, too.
Throughout my childhood, I never doubted this book. Although I did not write it, it was ever-present in my mind. I could pass dull hours by writing it within the pages of my imagination. Although interests came and went, it was the one thing that remained the same.
That book is still here. I’ve long since decided not to write a completely auto-biographical account of my life as that would surely be too personal and probably quite boring. However, in each story I endeavour to write, there is a piece or two of me. I think that is what I wanted all along although I could not express it as a child. I wanted to be known for myself and I felt the only way to do that was through writing because I’m better on paper than I am in person.
But that book is in a ruinous state these days. I’ve barely gotten past chapter three because as soon as I get there, I decide to change it again. I constantly fall into the trap of thinking that my ideas are stupid and that no one will want to read it. Sometimes, I wonder what the point is.
But then I am reminded of the book. Its more than just “a book” to me, but a childhood dream and a life calling. It has changed shape a lot throughout the years, but the idea remains the same. I want to be known and show the injustices I see and let others know that they are not alone–maybe its corny, but I want to make a difference in the world.
So I’ll try my hand at this book once more. Now that my semester is over, I’ve had a chance to think through it all. I don’t exactly know what I’ll write or how it will go, but I am going to try. No, I am going to do it. I’m going to write that book.
Today marks my two-year anniversary of blogging! I can’t believe I’ve been writing on here for so long! I think that this blog has almost been the book I meant to write as a child. 🙂 Thank you all for your support and encouragement over the years!!! It has been an amazing two years!
Click here to read my first post on this blog.
Click here to read last year’s anniversary post.