Julia, Week 15 - Memories of an Aspiring Author

 I thought I was going to be an author when I was younger.

    I had no idea where I felt this sudden spark of ambition, but six-year-old me kept cranking out stapled little booklets left and right. Writing these little stories helped distract me from the fact that I really had no true friends to have playdates with, my only “close” friend being a person that would always boss me around. The genres of these books would range from stories based on real events that would implement morals (since my life at the time consisted of many wild adventures with my family,) to a never-ending series of facts of an animal or certain color that I particularly enjoyed. 

    My most vivid memory involving this early passion for creating literature comes from a late spring afternoon in my first-grade classroom. Our only assignment that day was to be able to teach the entire class to do an activity that we genuinely enjoyed. Of course, with the only active hobby I had being storybook writing, I found myself walking around the classroom to pass out pre-stapled booklets with a colorful washi tape binding. Now standing up at the teacher’s desk, I shyly gave a demonstration on how to create the most eye-catching cover, my small and lean hands nervously writing the words, “My Dad’s Gone Missing” to be displayed on the big projector screen. 

    Now, with me being the oblivious first-grader I was, I paid little attention to what my classmates were drawing on their booklets. What really mattered to me at the time was the fact that I was finally able to do something entirely under my control, and even influence others to see what I truly liked. 

Writing granted me with plenty of freedom.

And perhaps that was my problem.

    It was not until I reached middle school where I stopped creating my little stories entirely. As time went on and I got a lot busier, I gradually lost the time to write—or even read—willingly. Everytime the idea of even writing a short diary entry crosses my mind, I can’t help but overthink about my writing style. I think less about the art of storytelling because I instead choose to focus on the conventions and logical meaning behind my work. If I were to fully commit to becoming an author, I’d feel obligated to write this, or erase that, or at least follow every rule I am told.

Becoming an author feels more restricting than I remembered.

And looking back at this memory now, it truly makes me wonder: 

Did I truly enjoy writing, or did I just like the idea of getting an opportunity to create choices for myself when there were many other ways I couldn’t?