“What?” I hear you say. “Random Rambles is posting something before the last day of the month?” Believe me, I’m just as surprised.
I started telling stories when I was very little. I think I was about 5, and it was 3 in the morning. There was a storm outside, and my sister and I were out in the hallway with the light on because she was scared. I wanted to cheer her up and make her laugh, and so I told her the following story:
Once upon a time, there was a princess who loved to eat oranges. And when the man she loved asked her to marry him, she said no. The end.
It is a super dumb, super short story, but it cheered my sister up. By the next morning I had come up with two equally dumb and equally short stories:
Once upon a time there was a girl who loved the color purple. But when all the purple stuff was on sale, she bought all of the expensive brown stuff instead. The end.
Once upon a time there was a man who lived in a bathtub. All the people of the town thought he was so clever, but when the wisest girl in the world saw him, she slapped him across the face. He was very confused. The end.
I learned from creating these stories that I loved coming up with things that would entertain people. And from then on, I was a writer.
I thought I was an amazing writer when I was little and that I could come up with stories no one had thought of before. I was wrong. Looking back on what I remember from my early stories (most of them are lost thankfully), I have to cringe. All I remember from my first multi-page story was that it had characters named after skin defects, and if that’s all I can remember, I don’t want to know what it was about.
The only good that came from me writing these stories was that I developed a writing style and a decent sense of how to use words. I excelled at grammar in grade school and high school, and rarely needed to revise any papers I wrote.
It took me two years to write my first multi-chapter “novel.” I finished it in 2015, and was immensely proud of myself. The problem is, it is loaded with errors and plot holes, and I am too proud of it to change anything. I’ve been writing the story’s sequel for two years now, and although it’s about the same amount of words, it’s only about halfway done.
Writing calms me down. That’s part of why I started this blog. “It will be cathartic.” My friend said. She knows me so well. Writing is cathartic for me. When I’m stressed, I either write in my journal (that has so many spelling/grammatical errors in some places I want to cringe- let’s just say I went through a phase where I shortened everything and used numbers as words), or close my eyes in front of a blank page and write whatever comes into my head until either a timer I set goes off or I’ve written a page of nonsense. It’s so relaxing. It helps that my laptop is old and has clunky keys, so I can hear each thump as I type. It’s a really nice ambient sound.
As much as I claim to hate it, I write more poetry than I mean to. I am very bad at it. I write poetry when I’m sad, and I never rhyme or come up with a meter, so it’s awful angsty stuff that should honestly just be burnt to a crisp. When I actually apply myself to writing poetry, I do okay at it; I mean, a poem I wrote won 2nd place in a contest and won me a $50 Barnes & Noble gift card. But I try to avoid poetry because I hate symbolism.
Almost all of my stories have a common factor: princesses. When I was little, I thought I would grow up to be a princess, and so all my main characters were princesses destined for glory. I’m the kind of person who (either purposefully or accidentally) bases my main characters after myself. It’s an easy thing to slip into.
My writing will never be like that of J. K. Rowling, nor J. R. R. Tolkein, or any other famous author (absolutely not Nathaniel Hawthorne- I do not have the vocabulary or the thesaurus for that). But it’s mine, and it makes me happy. That’s what counts, right?