Writing my Future

Many argue about when life begins. It is such a contentious issue for humans. Some say at conception, others argue at birth, however, I think it was when I first learned to write.

A fair-haired child proudly writing her own name, getting some of the letters backward but pretty proud of herself nonetheless.

Though never particularly apt at maths (she for some reason always skipped the 30s when she counted), writing came fairly easy to her.

It was small beginnings, to a passion that seemed anything but small to her, even at that age.

As that child grew, she could be found at any given time with her head buried in a book, looking forward to library day so she could fill her bag with another week's worth of reading.

Becoming frustrated that books didn’t quite always tell her what she wanted, she began to tell her own stories. At first just to herself in her mind, but as time passed she began to write them down.

She loved the feeling of creating a world made just for her, it felt special. A sort of magic seemed to light up her soul when she wrote, there seemed to be nothing else she wanted to do. Even at school, she lived in these worlds she created and couldn’t wait to come home to be a part of them again. They were an element of control in a life that was confusing and at times, unstable and unpredictable.

That little girl grew into me, and her love of writing and reading only became more intense as time moved forward.

It felt as if in writing, I found everything I needed.

When I felt I couldn’t trust anyone, writing trusted me.

When I felt myself, too big, my emotions simply uncontainable. Writing contained them, writing made me feel normal-sized again.

It was my safe haven, my release, my closest ally, my greatest friend.

It never let me down.

I have abandoned and picked up many hobbies over the years, but my deep and profound love for words has always stuck.

I may stray from it at times but it always seems to be there waiting for me when I need it, like the warmth of the covers after a long day.

Sadly in this, passions such as mine aren’t easy to make a living off.

I would love to live in a world where I could share my stories, book reviews, and essays with an audience and receive consistent pay in order to pay my living expenses.

I don’t want people to look at me with contempt when I tell them I want to be a writer or to simply scoff and say “you should get a real job in case that doesn’t work out.”

Though with the internet being so accessible and sites like Vocal being created, we move close to my dream becoming a reality, we have so far to come.

It is so crucial we support writers and artists of all forms. The world without art would be a hollow, meaningless place.

It also becomes increasingly important to create spaces for writing in our current climate. Fast-paced living with information constantly at our fingertips can be good, but it doesn’t always leave much space for mindfulness.

Writing aids in reflection, creative thinking, and relaxation which are all important aspects of mindfulness.

Supporting the arts ensures such important things aren’t lost to the hustle and bustle of everyday life.

Writing gives voices to the voiceless, it changes people’s hearts and minds, moves them to tears or laughter, raises goosebumps on their skin.

It’s more important now than ever.

I don’t need to win competitions or make millions to be happy, all I want is to know that I inspired one person to pick up a pen, tell their story and make a difference.