Yesterday, I had a random memory pop into my head out of nowhere. When I was about nine years-old, I remember that my dream was to become a cartoonist. The idea of being a writer wasn't even on my radar, despite having written several short stories at that time. No, I wanted to draw cartoons, and I remember sitting in class and spending a lot of time drawing random things, cartoon characters and superheroes and the like. I had several books on how to draw that I would work from when I was home, and I loved drawing so much that my favorite game as a child was Pictionary.
One day, I was sitting on the living room floor, doodling, and I drew what I thought was a great picture of Roger Klotz, the bully from the cartoon show Doug. I drew it hastily from memory, which was not something I often did. I usually drew from trying to copy some form of source material, very rarely just from my own head. Well, anyway, I was so proud of this drawing that I wanted to show it off to my dad. So, I did. And he gives me a slightly puzzled look and says "Who is this supposed to be?"
Of course, I thought, Dad's not familiar with that show, I need to show him the original character. I happened to have a pack of Doug trading cards and one of them was of Roger, so I ran to my room and got it and excitedly hurried back to show my dad. And I was like, "See? Doesn't it look just like him?"
He looked back and forth between the trading card and my drawing, and then with a sort of "meh" expression on his face, he says, "Eh, I guess it kind of looks like him." He then handed me back the card and my drawing, and that was it.
For him.
For me, I was crushed. It may seem silly now. After all, it was just a quick doodle from memory and years later I found it, and Dad was right. It wasn't very good. But at the time, being nine years-old and having spent so much time practicing drawing and having a dream of one day working on the Simpsons or Disney movies or even on a Nicktoon like Doug, that feedback had a huge impact on me and planted a rather large seed of doubt. Dad was oblivious, as he often was. I know he didn't intend to hurt my feelings or cause any irreparable damage. After all, I was the one who asked for his opinion. But I wasn't really asking for his opinion. I thought what I had done was brilliant and wanted it recognized. Instead my so-called brilliance was met with a "meh".
I continued to draw, but I never felt the same about it after that. No matter how hard I tried, I just never felt good enough. I really had no natural talent for drawing. I couldn't draw the same image twice flawlessly, which of course is very important in animation. By the age of ten, a mere year later, I had absolutely no desire to be a cartoonist at all anymore. In fact, when given an assignment to write what my future goals were, I wrote with absolute sincerity that I wanted to attend St. Petersburg Junior College and then become a waitress. In fact, for the next several years, I thought that's what I was going to do. And oddly enough, to this day, I still often write about twenty-something women who are waitresses (Beth in Moonridge Memories, for example), that's how much of an impact that transition had on me, that transition from having a huge, unobtainable dream to having a much more realistic and modest dream, and yet to some degree, glamorizing it.
When I was eleven, I wrote a lot of poetry and short stories. At twelve, I attempted my first novel and got stuck at around 30 pages or so. At thirteen, that novel suddenly clicked for me, by just adding extra characters to it and subplots, I was able to write the whole thing within a month or so. Writing after that came so easily to me that I never dreamed of being a professional author. It came so easily to me that I thought there was nothing special about me and that anyone could write stories or novels. Between the ages of thirteen and eighteen, I wrote the first drafts of fifteen novels. How many people write just one novel in their lifetime? I don't know. But somewhere between the ages of thirteen and eighteen, I went from writing as a hobby for my own personal enjoyment to really wanting to pursue it as a career.
At that time, I wouldn't let anyone read my books. Not one person. I was afraid of having a dream taken from me again. I wrote fifteen novels before the age of eighteen and gave myself so little credit for such an achievement, and even saying that now makes me uncomfortable--calling it an achievement. After all, it was nothing special. Everyone could do it, right?
Wrong.
Even in today's world, where you can be in touch with thousands of people over the internet who do what you do, my ability to write, finish, and publish a novel makes me feel more special today than it ever did when I was young, even when I knew no one else personally who wrote novels. So many people say "I'd write a novel, but I don't have time. Maybe someday." Someday usually doesn't come. Because writing a novel is not a whim for a writer. It's not an end goal for "someday". It's as necessary and as natural as breathing. That is why I never felt special, because one doesn't feel special for breathing. Everyone breathes. However, very few, comparatively speaking, write.
Drawing never came naturally for me. It required all of my energy and my effort and still came out "meh". When I browse a site like DeviantArt.com, I'm in awe of the talent that people have for such artistry. But then I'll read their descriptions and some of them will say things like "This didn't turn out how I wanted it to" or "This isn't very good, but..." and I'm thinking I couldn't draw something half this good if I had the rest of my life to work on it. I think it's time for people to start giving themselves more credit for what they can do, for what makes them special. It doesn't matter if there are people out there who are better or worse than you are. There is only one you. Your voice, your perspective, your mind, makes you special and stand out among your peers. No one can take that from you, unless you let them.
As I was writing this, I was reminded of a song by Belle Brigade whose lyrics are rather fitting for my sentiments above. So have a listen below, if you'd like. Try to feel good about the things you do, because there are too many people out there waiting to tear you down to build themselves up. When you have a strong foundation of confidence and appreciation for your own talent, no one can tear it down.
Showing posts with label Childhood Memories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Childhood Memories. Show all posts
Thursday, August 28, 2014
Sunday, March 3, 2013
Death of the TV Movie
On a decidedly random topic, I'd like to talk a bit about TV movies. The other day I was flipping around on TV and stopped on the movie "The Face On The Milk Carton", starring Kellie Martin. This is a movie I remembered watching as a kid. It got me to thinking about how many made-for-TV movies I had seen growing up, and the impact they had on me.
When I was young, television didn't have ratings like they do now. For the most part, my parents allowed me to watch anything on TV, because they were under the impression that a lot of things weren't allowed on TV. Which was true, to a degree. TV movies were always a treat. Since strong language and violence weren't as common or allowed on TV back then, I always felt the writing on TV movies and clever directing had a much deeper impact with "adult themes", and left more of an impression on me than even outright cursing or gore in an R-rated movie. There were always disturbing or even scary elements that were somehow overlooked by or completely ignored by the network censors. A perfect example? Pretty much any Stephen King TV miniseries.
Stephen King's IT was the first Stephen King movie I recall seeing (Stand By Me may have been first, but since it wasn't horror, I'll discount it for now ;)). I loved it from the opening scene, which probably sounds a bit bizarre considering I was only about seven years-old at the time. I was a big Tim Curry fan even then, and somehow the familiarity of him being the clown (Pennywise) both scared and delighted me. But for all its lack of gore (being a TV movie and all), it was frightening and disturbing. So many images from that movie haunted me, even apart from Pennywise himself--the shower room scene, the scenes in the sewers (especially with Belch getting sucked into a pipe and Henry's hair turning stark white), the fortune cookie scene, Stan getting locked in the house with "IT", and many more.
After watching IT, it became a tradition of watching Stephen King's TV movies with my family, such as Tommyknockers and The Langoliers. Every time a new Stephen King movie was coming on TV, I couldn't wait to watch it. The movies were often spread over two nights or more, and I loved that formula. The anticipation of seeing part two, having something to look forward to all day at school--I just loved it.
Apart from straight up horror TV movies though, I saw a lot of "based on true events" ones. That seemed to be really big at the time. A couple really have stuck with me. One starred Neil Patrick Harris and was called "Snowbound: The Jim and Jennifer Stolpa Story". I don't remember it terribly well, but the concept of it (getting lost and stranded in a basically barren snowy environment) really freaked me out--even moreso knowing it was based on a true story.
Another was "The Flood: Who Will Save Our Children?". When I was five years-old, we had a relatively bad flood where I lived. I remember my mom walked me and my sister home from school, and the water was up to my waist. Now this is hardly as traumatizing as what happened in the movie, but I think my personal experience is what made the movie have such a huge impact on me. I'm sad to say I haven't gotten the chance to see it again since that first airing. If I recall correctly, the plot involved a school bus full of children that gets caught in a heavy flood. I found it deeply disturbing.
It saddens me today how made-for-TV movies aren't as common as they once were, especially on network TV. Some of my fondest memories of childhood was gathering around with my family, usually a bowl of popcorn, and tuning in for a TV movie. Sure, most of them really weren't appropriate for children, but I still enjoyed them. I think in many ways they even inspired me and my writing, because they often had plots that weren't common in theatrical movies, and there was a lot of creativity involved in making them effective without crossing censorship lines.
When I was young, television didn't have ratings like they do now. For the most part, my parents allowed me to watch anything on TV, because they were under the impression that a lot of things weren't allowed on TV. Which was true, to a degree. TV movies were always a treat. Since strong language and violence weren't as common or allowed on TV back then, I always felt the writing on TV movies and clever directing had a much deeper impact with "adult themes", and left more of an impression on me than even outright cursing or gore in an R-rated movie. There were always disturbing or even scary elements that were somehow overlooked by or completely ignored by the network censors. A perfect example? Pretty much any Stephen King TV miniseries.
Stephen King's IT was the first Stephen King movie I recall seeing (Stand By Me may have been first, but since it wasn't horror, I'll discount it for now ;)). I loved it from the opening scene, which probably sounds a bit bizarre considering I was only about seven years-old at the time. I was a big Tim Curry fan even then, and somehow the familiarity of him being the clown (Pennywise) both scared and delighted me. But for all its lack of gore (being a TV movie and all), it was frightening and disturbing. So many images from that movie haunted me, even apart from Pennywise himself--the shower room scene, the scenes in the sewers (especially with Belch getting sucked into a pipe and Henry's hair turning stark white), the fortune cookie scene, Stan getting locked in the house with "IT", and many more.
After watching IT, it became a tradition of watching Stephen King's TV movies with my family, such as Tommyknockers and The Langoliers. Every time a new Stephen King movie was coming on TV, I couldn't wait to watch it. The movies were often spread over two nights or more, and I loved that formula. The anticipation of seeing part two, having something to look forward to all day at school--I just loved it.
Apart from straight up horror TV movies though, I saw a lot of "based on true events" ones. That seemed to be really big at the time. A couple really have stuck with me. One starred Neil Patrick Harris and was called "Snowbound: The Jim and Jennifer Stolpa Story". I don't remember it terribly well, but the concept of it (getting lost and stranded in a basically barren snowy environment) really freaked me out--even moreso knowing it was based on a true story.
Another was "The Flood: Who Will Save Our Children?". When I was five years-old, we had a relatively bad flood where I lived. I remember my mom walked me and my sister home from school, and the water was up to my waist. Now this is hardly as traumatizing as what happened in the movie, but I think my personal experience is what made the movie have such a huge impact on me. I'm sad to say I haven't gotten the chance to see it again since that first airing. If I recall correctly, the plot involved a school bus full of children that gets caught in a heavy flood. I found it deeply disturbing.
It saddens me today how made-for-TV movies aren't as common as they once were, especially on network TV. Some of my fondest memories of childhood was gathering around with my family, usually a bowl of popcorn, and tuning in for a TV movie. Sure, most of them really weren't appropriate for children, but I still enjoyed them. I think in many ways they even inspired me and my writing, because they often had plots that weren't common in theatrical movies, and there was a lot of creativity involved in making them effective without crossing censorship lines.
Sunday, September 23, 2012
Welcome To Moonridge
I'd like to take a moment to introduce the small fictional town of Moonridge, located in Ohio. In my series "Moonridge Memories", the town of Moonridge is both the background setting as well as a bit of a scapegoat for some of the horrible things that happen there. The main character of the series, Theresa, often reflects on the state of the town and in turn, the people who live there. I always wanted to write a book or a series where a town is almost a character unto itself, and although it's not very uncommon in horror fiction, I haven't really seen it done in mainstream fiction...at least not that I can recall. I often wondered if it was too much of a stretch to make a town almost its own entity, but it occurred to me that there are cities and towns in real life that seem to have their own heartbeat and personality.
First, allow me to give a little bit of history of how Moonridge came to be in my mind. When I was brainstorming for the "Moonridge Memories" series when I was a teenager, I drew a lot from aspects of my life and the things I knew well, as many writers do. After all, this was my first book, and I didn't want to overwhelm myself with trying to write a novel about places and people and things that I would have to heavily research. So, one of the most basic elements a writer needs before beginning their work is a setting. I knew I wanted to set the book(s) in a town that had a lot of history and was sort of old-fashioned, almost antiquated. This led me to the city I was born in and still have a great love for: Cincinnati.
I lived in Cincinnati until I was two years-old, before my family moved to Florida. Sadly, I don't recall living in Cincinnati, but every year my family would take a trip back there when I was a kid. Because Cincinnati was a vacation spot for me and very different from any city I've lived in in Florida, it had an almost magical quality to it. It was so rich in history, and all the homes and businesses were old and had a lot of character to them. Although Cincinnati is far from being a small town, it always felt like there was a sense of familiarity among the people who lived there. Both of my parents were born and raised in Cincinnati, so I feel like that's still where my roots are and my home away from home. When I was young, I often longed to live there and be near family and feel connected to my roots. So, when I sat down to write the "Moonridge Memories" series, I knew I wanted that for my characters, for better or for worse. In Theresa's case, she complains about the town and often longs to leave it, but really, she has a deep rooted loyalty to the town she grew up in, and it is home for her, despite all the horrible memories that dwell there.
I wanted Moonridge to be a living, breathing entity even if it is only in the background of the story. As the series progresses, there is this sense that the town is cursed when terrible events keep happening. I think of the town as being haunted by the tragedies of the past, and this leaves the residents in a pretty bad state of mind, which only perpetuates the dreadful events that plague the town.
Fun fact: the town of "Moonridge" was named after a street in Cincinnati by the same name.
So, there you have it! A little bit of insight into the "making of" Moonridge, Ohio. Consider checking out the first book in the "Moonridge Memories" series: Dog Days of Summer
And book two, "Leaves In Autumn", will be out next month!
First, allow me to give a little bit of history of how Moonridge came to be in my mind. When I was brainstorming for the "Moonridge Memories" series when I was a teenager, I drew a lot from aspects of my life and the things I knew well, as many writers do. After all, this was my first book, and I didn't want to overwhelm myself with trying to write a novel about places and people and things that I would have to heavily research. So, one of the most basic elements a writer needs before beginning their work is a setting. I knew I wanted to set the book(s) in a town that had a lot of history and was sort of old-fashioned, almost antiquated. This led me to the city I was born in and still have a great love for: Cincinnati.
I lived in Cincinnati until I was two years-old, before my family moved to Florida. Sadly, I don't recall living in Cincinnati, but every year my family would take a trip back there when I was a kid. Because Cincinnati was a vacation spot for me and very different from any city I've lived in in Florida, it had an almost magical quality to it. It was so rich in history, and all the homes and businesses were old and had a lot of character to them. Although Cincinnati is far from being a small town, it always felt like there was a sense of familiarity among the people who lived there. Both of my parents were born and raised in Cincinnati, so I feel like that's still where my roots are and my home away from home. When I was young, I often longed to live there and be near family and feel connected to my roots. So, when I sat down to write the "Moonridge Memories" series, I knew I wanted that for my characters, for better or for worse. In Theresa's case, she complains about the town and often longs to leave it, but really, she has a deep rooted loyalty to the town she grew up in, and it is home for her, despite all the horrible memories that dwell there.
I wanted Moonridge to be a living, breathing entity even if it is only in the background of the story. As the series progresses, there is this sense that the town is cursed when terrible events keep happening. I think of the town as being haunted by the tragedies of the past, and this leaves the residents in a pretty bad state of mind, which only perpetuates the dreadful events that plague the town.
Fun fact: the town of "Moonridge" was named after a street in Cincinnati by the same name.
So, there you have it! A little bit of insight into the "making of" Moonridge, Ohio. Consider checking out the first book in the "Moonridge Memories" series: Dog Days of Summer
And book two, "Leaves In Autumn", will be out next month!
Friday, September 14, 2012
How It Really All Began
About a week ago, I was thinking about the question, "When did you start writing?", and I realized my kneejerk response is always "At the age of 13, when I wrote my first novel." And although I believe that is when my true lifelong passion began, I suddenly had a memory of the third grade when my class was making accordian-style books. The memory is vague, but as I recall, we were allowed to make extra books for extra credit or some sort of reward. I can't remember how many I made, but I kept churning them out and ended up having the most in the class, I think somewhere between 10-15 books. I wish I still had at least one of them to show off, because this memory made me realize that writing has always been a part of me, even before I really gave it any thought or any real importance.
My third grade memory made me dig a little more into the dusty recesses of my mind, and I remember now that I used to write short stories in fourth grade as well, usually when I was supposed to be paying attention in class. Even then, writing was an escape.
When I got to middle school, life became very difficult for me. I had a hard time adjusting to the new school environment, and I felt childhood slowly slipping out of my grasp. I was teased mercilessly by my peers and didn't really have any close friends, and I developed a lot anxiety which pretty much made me depressed all the time. At eleven years old, I felt hopeless and suicidal. I turned to writing to help me through it, because I felt like it was the only way I could really express myself. I ended up writing a lot of depressing poetry and morbid short stories, just as a way of getting all that hurt and anger and fear out of me. I still have trouble thinking about that time in my life, and that's probably why I never talk about my writing from before I was thirteen.
As a bit of a side note, I remember everyday when my mom would drive me to middle school, I would see that old gray building looming in front of me, and I would have these vivid imaginings of watching the school burn down. It looked and felt like a prison to me, and I just wanted it to go away. A few years ago, they did actually tear my old middle school down and rebuilt it from scratch. For me, it was like seeing hell destroyed, and it gave me some closure. It's a bit surreal though when I have nightmares about that school, and I wake up and realize I'll never set foot in that building again because it doesn't exist anymore.
Anyway, when I started this blog post, I had no intention of delving into that time in my life, but it's been oddly therapeutic. I often wonder if I hadn't been able to express myself through writing, if I'd even still be here today. And on that note, I want to leave you with a poem I wrote during that time in my life. This hasn't been edited, and was copied down just as it had been written at the time.
"Into Your Heart"
They laugh in my face
And slow down my pace
Then I cry all through the night
I lay down in pain
Then go insane
Never winning the fight
Oh why can't they tell
This is the hell
I suffer through everyday?
Are they too blind to see
I'm in misery
I'm lost, alone, and afraid?
If life is a gift,
what is with this?
Why must I pray for death?
If I'm left here to suffer
and strength I must muster
Why do they call this the best?
I'm supposed to have peace,
where's my release?
Why has my soul been bruised?
When I grow up,
will the sun show up
And chase away my sorrows and blues?
But what of today
what can I say
As they kick me and treat me like dirt?
Should I hold my head high
keep my tears inside
And pretend that I am not hurt?
I just can't be that strong
All this wrong
Why must they fill me with hate?
Where are the adults
This is their fault
why can't they ever relate?
So, please, oh Lord
I just can't afford,
to go on while they stand still.
Help me to show them
I just can't forgive them
if they go on crushing my will.
So here are my prayers
they have many layers,
But it's truth from the very start.
I hope you can hear
the fall of my tears
and enter me into your heart.
~
Copyright, L.M. Pfalz
My third grade memory made me dig a little more into the dusty recesses of my mind, and I remember now that I used to write short stories in fourth grade as well, usually when I was supposed to be paying attention in class. Even then, writing was an escape.
When I got to middle school, life became very difficult for me. I had a hard time adjusting to the new school environment, and I felt childhood slowly slipping out of my grasp. I was teased mercilessly by my peers and didn't really have any close friends, and I developed a lot anxiety which pretty much made me depressed all the time. At eleven years old, I felt hopeless and suicidal. I turned to writing to help me through it, because I felt like it was the only way I could really express myself. I ended up writing a lot of depressing poetry and morbid short stories, just as a way of getting all that hurt and anger and fear out of me. I still have trouble thinking about that time in my life, and that's probably why I never talk about my writing from before I was thirteen.
As a bit of a side note, I remember everyday when my mom would drive me to middle school, I would see that old gray building looming in front of me, and I would have these vivid imaginings of watching the school burn down. It looked and felt like a prison to me, and I just wanted it to go away. A few years ago, they did actually tear my old middle school down and rebuilt it from scratch. For me, it was like seeing hell destroyed, and it gave me some closure. It's a bit surreal though when I have nightmares about that school, and I wake up and realize I'll never set foot in that building again because it doesn't exist anymore.
Anyway, when I started this blog post, I had no intention of delving into that time in my life, but it's been oddly therapeutic. I often wonder if I hadn't been able to express myself through writing, if I'd even still be here today. And on that note, I want to leave you with a poem I wrote during that time in my life. This hasn't been edited, and was copied down just as it had been written at the time.
"Into Your Heart"
They laugh in my face
And slow down my pace
Then I cry all through the night
I lay down in pain
Then go insane
Never winning the fight
Oh why can't they tell
This is the hell
I suffer through everyday?
Are they too blind to see
I'm in misery
I'm lost, alone, and afraid?
If life is a gift,
what is with this?
Why must I pray for death?
If I'm left here to suffer
and strength I must muster
Why do they call this the best?
I'm supposed to have peace,
where's my release?
Why has my soul been bruised?
When I grow up,
will the sun show up
And chase away my sorrows and blues?
But what of today
what can I say
As they kick me and treat me like dirt?
Should I hold my head high
keep my tears inside
And pretend that I am not hurt?
I just can't be that strong
All this wrong
Why must they fill me with hate?
Where are the adults
This is their fault
why can't they ever relate?
So, please, oh Lord
I just can't afford,
to go on while they stand still.
Help me to show them
I just can't forgive them
if they go on crushing my will.
So here are my prayers
they have many layers,
But it's truth from the very start.
I hope you can hear
the fall of my tears
and enter me into your heart.
~
Copyright, L.M. Pfalz
Sunday, April 22, 2012
Where The Journey Began
Hi. I'm Laura, and I'm a writer. When I tell people this, I often get the dreaded question of "Well, have you been published?" which can lead to a long story about past experiences or a more simple "Not yet, but hopefully someday." and leave it at that. I just want to say for the record that being published or unpublished doesn't make you any more or less a writer, and fellow writers will understand this. Writing is in the blood, in the soul, consumes the mind, and sets up house in your dreams. If you're writing to strike it rich or become famous, odds are you will be sorely disappointed. And if that's all writing is to you, you'd be better off buying some lottery tickets.
For me, my passion for writing began when I was a child, and the title of my blog is inspired by the events that led me to writing my first novel. When I was twelve, I made a very important decision: it was time to pack a way my toys and grow up. After all, soon I would be thirteen. ThirTEEN. Yes, a teenager. And certainly teenagers aren't supposed to play with toys. Teenage girls are supposed to learn how to apply makeup (still haven't), have slumber parties (never did), and start dating (yeah right). Oh boy! What fun being a teenager would be!
So, I got to work packing up my toys. The last and most painful ones to see banished into a cardboard box and eventually my closet were my Barbie dolls. I had neverending storylines going on with them...for years! I tried to wrap up the loose ends and put my mind at ease, but it was no good. When I went to bed that night, like so many nights before, I thought about the continuing saga I had developed through my dolls, and I nearly drove myself insane. Usually, the cliffhangers gave me something to look forward to the next day. I couldn't wait to come home from school and play with my toys and act out all the scenarios in my head. But the next day came, and the dolls weren't waiting for me. Oh, that's right. They'd been banished. I was too old for that stuff now.
Every night was the same. I couldn't go to sleep, my mind raced with story ideas, and I had no outlet for them. Until finally one day, I sat down on my bed with a stack of notebook paper and started writing out my storylines...from the beginning. I got stuck after 30 pages, but I didn't give up. I took a break from it, and decided to take a different approach. I got my parents' electric typewriter and started typing away. The story came easier now. It was somehow clearer in my mind and more organized. 150 pages later, my first novella was complete. I was satisfied. The story was told. My dolls could rest in peace.
But of course, it didn't end there. I started writing another novel and another and another, and didn't stop. I never took a break from it during my teen years. And you know what? Being a teenager WAS fun, but not for any of the reasons I thought.
As hard as it was to come to terms with no longer being a child, and having to give up the play things I loved, I realized that something so wonderful came out of it. And even once those childish things are put away, they still live on in one way or another. For me, it's through writing. And what a magical journey it has been, and will hopefully continue to be.
For me, my passion for writing began when I was a child, and the title of my blog is inspired by the events that led me to writing my first novel. When I was twelve, I made a very important decision: it was time to pack a way my toys and grow up. After all, soon I would be thirteen. ThirTEEN. Yes, a teenager. And certainly teenagers aren't supposed to play with toys. Teenage girls are supposed to learn how to apply makeup (still haven't), have slumber parties (never did), and start dating (yeah right). Oh boy! What fun being a teenager would be!
So, I got to work packing up my toys. The last and most painful ones to see banished into a cardboard box and eventually my closet were my Barbie dolls. I had neverending storylines going on with them...for years! I tried to wrap up the loose ends and put my mind at ease, but it was no good. When I went to bed that night, like so many nights before, I thought about the continuing saga I had developed through my dolls, and I nearly drove myself insane. Usually, the cliffhangers gave me something to look forward to the next day. I couldn't wait to come home from school and play with my toys and act out all the scenarios in my head. But the next day came, and the dolls weren't waiting for me. Oh, that's right. They'd been banished. I was too old for that stuff now.
Every night was the same. I couldn't go to sleep, my mind raced with story ideas, and I had no outlet for them. Until finally one day, I sat down on my bed with a stack of notebook paper and started writing out my storylines...from the beginning. I got stuck after 30 pages, but I didn't give up. I took a break from it, and decided to take a different approach. I got my parents' electric typewriter and started typing away. The story came easier now. It was somehow clearer in my mind and more organized. 150 pages later, my first novella was complete. I was satisfied. The story was told. My dolls could rest in peace.
But of course, it didn't end there. I started writing another novel and another and another, and didn't stop. I never took a break from it during my teen years. And you know what? Being a teenager WAS fun, but not for any of the reasons I thought.
As hard as it was to come to terms with no longer being a child, and having to give up the play things I loved, I realized that something so wonderful came out of it. And even once those childish things are put away, they still live on in one way or another. For me, it's through writing. And what a magical journey it has been, and will hopefully continue to be.
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