I knew since I was six years old that I wanted to make magic. Magic, the literary kind. I remember being hit with a beam of inspiration, grabbing stacks of printer paper and stapling them together, scrawling a title in dark green. The Magic Painting. The first book that I would ever write. The first world I would bring to life. The story of a girl who got sucked into her own painting, into a world of fairies and creatures called Highhairyans which were really just walking trash cans. I worked on this story day by day, crafting each page with my own sort of passion. Hiding under the covers and spreading purple glitter glue with my fingers, scribbling on the coffee table, asking my mom how to spell words I didn’t know. I finished that book with pride. I still have it somewhere, though the pages are yellow and tissue thin, water stained and falling apart at the seams.

From there I made more of these little booklets. Stories of fairies and mermaids, superheroes and spies, magic and ninjas. My sister and I would lay on the wooden floor outside our bedroom and draw little acorns and trees with crayons. I told my dad that I was going to publish all of them, once I got good enough at drawing. My writing of course, was already flawless. He laughed, telling me I would have to learn to color inside the lines first. I made it my goal to do just that. I didn’t write to escape, but to capture a bit of the whimsy I held inside of me on a blank canvas. I wrote and drew simply because that was what I loved- I loved to imagine, and I wanted to pour forth that imagination in a medium that everyone could see. Of course my writing evolved, and by the time I was a teenager I was writing longer pieces with better grammar. I was never quite aware of how completely horrible it was, because I was so sucked into my own universe. I’m thankful for this. If I thought I was bad, I probably wouldn’t have kept going. Ignorance is truly bliss.

I wrote to escape. My writing became darker and stranger but still it was full of life. It was full of who I was at that time. It was ridiculous but it allowed me to release large mounds of emotion that had begun to grow on my bones and balloon into problematic infections. It was a quiet, introspective way to slice these little growths and deposit them to some other body in some other realm.For a while I wrote with angst, and I lost myself to it.

The whimsy of my childhood had died. I was a monster, in my own eyes. I wanted more than anything to stuff these budding woman parts back where they had come from, shrink down to my previous size, dream and play barbie dolls in the safety of my bunk bed. Still I long for such days, but I have grown up and come to terms with this life. In some ways, at least.

I think somewhere last year the magic came back. Somewhere along the line I realized oh, this isn’t so bad. There is still beauty where there is ugliness, there is still stability where there are splinters, somewhere in this rubble there is a body with breathing lungs and and a shaking heart. I began to pick up the pieces of myself, and I evolved. Suddenly my desires became less selfish, suddenly I wanted to save the world. I became depressed because of the sadness inside of them. Instead of my own demons, I was haunted by the pasts of all those around me. I felt as they felt, I cried as they cried. I loved people with all of my heart. I was better, but at the same time, I was still feeling at the speed of light.

I wanted to write for these people. I wanted to love them. I wanted to create magic, not just for myself or for my friends, but for the world. I wanted to make magic. I wanted to save the world. I still do.

I study writing at school, I hang around writers, I read, I dream, but still I fear I will never have talent, I will never be given the gift of a profound story. Only time will tell. Today I look back on my life and I think, look at who I am. Look at who I will be. That is a beautiful thing.


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