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Every school has its alleged bookworm, and I was definitely dubbed as such starting at a very young age.  If you can imagine the scrawny kid in the hallway trying (and failing) to master the art of walking and reading at the same time, with the oversized glasses, than you have a good idea of what I was like.  Except I wasn’t fortunate enough to get glasses until 5th grade, so I had the joy of being extra strange by carrying around a magnifying glass with me.  To be blunt, I was a very odd child.  I was quiet and timid.  While I didn’t want to volunteer myself for anything, I was always secretly crossing my fingers, hoping the teachers would call on me-especially if it involved reading out loud.

Writing was something I fell in love with as my passion for reading developed.  I wanted to read anything and everything, almost as if conducting my own little scavenger hunts for new styles and ideas.  The librarians adored me because I would venture into the dark and lonely corners of shelves and give attention to the books that even they had forgotten about.  As literature swept me off to worlds much more interesting than my own, I became intrigued by the words on the page.  Words fascinate me-spelling them out, stringing them together, even breaking them apart to their roots and meanings.  The more words I read the more I wanted to create something of my own with them.  I found that while I was scared to speak up in class, through writing, I had a booming, powerful voice that could seemingly shake the world.  Written word became my megaphone.

Words were always important in my family.  My father was a firm believer that you should read the classics to your toddlers rather than children’s books.  There was nothing to be learned from whispering “the cat ran” to your child every night.  However, it wasn’t until around first grade when reading and writing really took hold of my life.  I did everything I could to be in the top reading group.  I would scoot to the front of the class when the writing period began so I could make sure not to miss anything.  Halfway through the year my teacher pulled my mom aside and told her I was going to be an author one day.  The teacher made us promise to give her one of the first copies of whatever book I would end up writing.  Of course after a compliment like that my addiction only seemed to grow.  For days I was smiling without cease, dreamily imagining my name in print.

One of my favorite years as a writer was by far the fifth grade.  While I was young and my grammar was atrocious, my fiery spirit was brilliant.  My school decided to have a professional poet come for weeks and teach us how to embrace our creativity.  I admired her.  She could take a few beautiful words, spread them out over just a couple of lines, and make the most incredible piece of art I have ever seen. Throughout my time with her I never left the edge of my seat.  That year I would go on to read as much Frost, Silverstein, and Poe as humanly possible.  I became obsessed with trying to conquer the art of poetry.  Being young, my attention quickly turned back to becoming a famous novella, and for a while at least, I left my poetry aside.

As the years wore on, I was constantly scribbling down book ideas.  I wanted to write something new and fresh.  Something no one had ever seen.  To do that, I decided to read as many different types of books as I could get my hands on.  First, I read hundreds of pages about all the different species of insects, birds, and monkeys.  (I really wanted an exotic pet, and I was trying to build up a good argument against my parents).  When those books became overwhelming, I went on to read autobiographies and biographies.  Endlessly, I read about presidents, explorers, and with envy, I even read about my favorite authors.  I was especially jealous of Emily Dickinson, who got to hide from the world in her house.  In the end, the classics seemed to be my favorites.  What can I say; I am my father’s daughter.

My imaginary world, which I thought for sure was going to lead to great success, appeared to be seamless.  In fact, as soon as I could decide upon a topic from my list of book ideas, I was ready to start my first novel.  Than, it happened.  I decided to read Ecclesiastes one night, and right in front of me lay the most painful phrase I had ever read: “There is nothing new under the sun.”  All the years of planning and prepping to write that one of a kind book suddenly seemed a waste.  I was devastated.  For days, every time I saw my Bible, I would cry.  After about a week though, arrogance kicked in as I decided I would try to prove King Solomon wrong.

My writing picked up.  Soon I was entering poetry contests, and I was winning.  By seventh grade a short story of mine was published in a collaborative book sold in Christian bookstores across the country.  The more I read and wrote it became abundantly clear that I could not get enough.  I joined an online art site where I have currently posted hundreds and hundreds of pieces.  People across the world started reading my works, and in turn, I would go and read theirs.  Great friendships were formed, and with their feedback, advice, and even some ideas I borrowed from their own writings, I started to learn a lot.

While my writing was always my own, as I changed, it changed.  At first it gave me the ability to be heard by people who may have never listened to me otherwise.  As life swerved left and right, soon words were an outlet for all of my emotions. In my teen years, as I distanced myself from my parents, the words I wrote down were the only time they had the opportunity to see into my life.  As most people seem to do sooner or later, when I finally got sick of religion, politics, and the world in general, my furiously written essays let me vent out what ever radical nonsense I could come up with at the time.  No matter what though, at every age and stage in my life my literacy as an impassioned writer and avid reader has always served a profound and wonderful purpose.

As for now, my literacy is helping me hold on to my memories.  With each passing day I find something new to marvel at.  In my attempt to never forget the most fragile and fleeting moments in life, I jot them down.  Sometimes this comes out in poems about what I see right outside my window and how that makes me feel.  Other days it may be a simple email to a friend living far away, ranting about my latest encounter with stress or joy.  When something is particularly precious to me I tend to put it into a short story so I can include as much details and emotions as possible.  No matter what, at some point or other, nearly everything I have ever felt, loved, hated, or wished for has been put down on paper.  The things I have yet to experience, and thus have no ability to write about, I enjoy second-handedly through my books.

Every article, novel, poem, play, and song is like an injection of creativity.  For every piece I read I want to spit out five more with my pen.  I have come to realize all the books in the world can not satisfy me if one of my own are not among them one day.  If reading is knowledge, than writing is freedom.  Both are things I eagerly thirst for in my daily life.  With reading is the honor to learn, and with writing is the honor to express.  When I write I have power.  With power I have to make an earnest attempt not to abuse such power.  My promise to myself was always to write in peace, as hippy-like as that sounds.  Each word is an opportunity to let others understand and feel the unfamiliar.  Writing gives me the courage to say the things I would never dare speak out loud. Writing is my way to live and relive my life.  It’s the only time I can have an edited conversation with another person.  Writing is my literacy, it is what I do best, and it is what I love.  If I can make a profession out of that, I could not be happier.

When I was younger, I used to dream that I would write really happy poems and read them to all the sad people in the world.  Soon everyone would be smiling and laughing.  I envisioned a world overflowing with rainbows and butterflies, and I wanted more than anything for the world to embrace optimism and enjoy life with me.  Now that I am less idealistic, my only hope is that at some point my words will be like a mirror in which every person can see their own unique reflection.  I want to leave my meanings open so that everyone can relate.  If I could pick a specific function that writing has in my life right now, it would be that it connects me to the world outside my own.  Writing is my way to erase all barriers and make friends out of strangers.