I was always told I had a great imagination. I loved music from the time I was born and I danced before I could walk. I was expressing myself before I even knew what that was. Fast forward five years, my childhood is in full swing. I filled my days but taking my Barbies and stuffed animals on great adventures, or I played Hot wheels with my brother and we would create action sequences with just tiny toy cars and use out minds to add in the sound effects and explosions. Then, we discovered video games and wouldn’t have to imagine anymore. We could make it happen.
The next year I started school. I loved it and while I had issues with the sounds the letters made, I would proudly announce every road sign and restaurant we passed in the car. On the weekends, I had lazy days which allowed my imagination to overflow. I wrote my first ever story that year, on copy paper I’d stolen from the printer. It was basically a rip-off of Cinderella, except with a triangle-bodied princess with a perfectly round head and stringy hair. The prince was long and slender with his feet pointing out in opposite directions. They were definitely my most unique characters to date.
I didn’t write another story until 4th grade. It was in preparation for my second ever state standardized test. I spent all night writing it and unfortunately had to cut myself short from the 10 page (front and back) limit. I squeezed two sentences right on top of one another on the last few lines and squeezed the final ones on the side of the page. I was ridiculously proud of myself. Later that year, I passed the state test.
That same year, we had to write personal essays. I don’t quite remember what the prompt was, but I wrote about a family dog who had died from cancer. When we got our papers back, around a month later, a teacher (not mine) who was renowned for her stern and often “mean” demeanor, told me that all of the teachers were touched by my paper and that some even cried. To me, it was just an essay. In fact, I barely remembered the dog’s death. It was the first time I realized that my words could have a strong effect on people.
Fifth grade. It was the year people started “dating”, cussing, and acting like teenagers although we were still far from teenage-hood. Middle school loomed over us like a dark scary rain cloud. No more recess, six classes instead of one, “real work”. My teacher was strict and very determined to make us “middle school” ready. We wrote short argumentative essays and read books that weren’t The Babysitter’s Club or The Boxcar Children. Instead we read The Island of Blue Dolphins and Homecoming. I’d already read most of the aforementioned series and I found myself loving the new reading material. I read The Chronicles of Narnia for the first time and read one of my favorite books The Phantom Tollbooth. It was the first time I’d read fantasy or sci-fi. At the end of the year, my teacher had us vote on class superlatives. I was set on being voted “Smartest” or “Best Smile” or something vain or that I could brag about. However, instead I received “The Mark Twain Award” otherwise known as “The Best Writer In Class”. I was horrified. I was convinced my classmates had only given me the award because they couldn’t think of anything else to give me. I felt my soul crush. I felt dumb and ugly. I took the award home and shoved it somewhere it was mostly to get stepped on or shredded by my cat.
Middle school, to anyone who attended it, is often remembered as a time of terrible hair, make-up mistakes, awkward conversations, etc. It is a time when everyone is going through puberty and doesn’t quite know what to do about that yet. Sixth grade came and went without any writing revelations other than receiving good grades, but being the Hermione I am, I couldn’t allow myself a bad grade. Seventh grade, however, was a revolution. Early in the year, I lost most of my friends. It was nothing more than petty hormones of twelve-year-old girls. But, with my two female family members out of town, I turned to songs to help me cope with my newfound loneliness.I wrote poems and songs about the situation which helped me get all of my anger out in a controlled and healthy way. I found that putting my feelings into writing, it helped me understand how I felt and how other people were probably feeling. I eventually made new friends and moved on with my life. However, I discovered the therapy of being able to sit down and not be told that I’m wrong or that nobody liked me.
The year progressed and I found myself dripping with inspiration. There were stories floating around in my head, to the point that I couldn’t pay attention in class. My first real short story was a fan fiction of a late ’80s Western called Young Riders, which followed riders in the Pony Express. Unsatisfied with the ending, I shifted thirteen years in the future and wrote from the next generations perspective. My family was nothing but encouraging and even handed out the story to family members and friends to show off. Wanting more people to see my story, I went to the internet and joined the first free writing site I found, Booksie. After getting some positive feedback, I started writing more. I wrote mainly historical fiction, as that was my main interest at the time, but I wrote my first two “novels” at the time. I use the term “novels” loosely as the chapters averaged around 500 words or less. Although the plots, while somewhat juvenile and underdeveloped were original. For the first time in my entire life, I felt passionate about something outside of school. I would scramble to finish my homework and then write a chapter or two before bed. I made rookie mistakes in both my writing and within the industry, but nothing but a little pride was hurt.
I eventually kept joining writing sites until I came across Inkpop. I wasn’t very active, but it introduced me to roleplaying. If you’re unfamiliar with roleplaying, it is where two or more people take a prompt or story idea, create characters and together, create the story. It is a similar to improve comedy. Keep it going, don’t steal the spotlight, and be considerate. I loved roleplaying as it forced me to think on the spot, make my character special (but not too special), and it helped make me friends within the teen writing community.
Inkpop then merged with Figment, another writing site for teens. I was a Freshman in high school by this point, and I hadn’t written anything substantial for almost a year. I switched my account over during lunch and then I left it. I barely used my account for two months.
In that two months, I changed. I discovered a new band that I became a tad bit obsessed with…One Direction. Bear with me, I promise it will get better. I started writing fan fiction and lo and behold, people began reading. More people were reading my stories more than ever. I was actually writing full length chapters almost every single day. I didn’t have a job and once school got out, I was able to devote almost all of my time to writing. I made friends, I became popular for the first time (and probably the last time) in my life. Between April and November, I’d written a 60,000 word novel, countless short stories, 10 chapters (I believe roughly 12-15,000 words) of a completely different non-fan fiction novel, and many poems. I have never been that productive since and I hope that one day, I can hopefully get back to writing at the same level during such a short amount of time.
The next couple years, life hit. The next summer I was busier, had writer’s block, and found myself slightly depressed. I then got a job, became involved in school, and suddenly I had no time to write. All of that productivity ended and I found myself in a rut. Although after encouragement from teachers, friends, and discovering that I loved to make up and tell stories, I’d finally accepted the fact that I was a writer and I wanted writing to be a part of my life for the rest of my life. It was like every romantic comedy when the heroine realizes that she’s actually in love with the hero or vice versa and the realizing party runs after their love interest, ending in a happily ever after.
Except with writing there’s hardly a happily ever after. I get nice comments every once in a while, I was voted “Most Likely to Write Bestselling Novel” my senior year, and I’ve been lucky to have encouraging and awesome people in my life who live with my madness and loud typing.
Sure, maybe one day I’ll get published. Maybe I’ll be the next J.K. Rowling. But I’ll always be stuck with stories in my head struggling to get out. Not that I’m complaining, I just need more time, faster fingers, and more money.
In relation to the title, how do I cope? The answer is: I don’t. Being a writer isn’t something you cope with, its something you have to embrace.You don’t get to choose the late nights when you’re up daydreaming or writing. Or when you suddenly start crying because you figured out a character’s fate. Or when you suddenly lose focus at work or when driving because the stories in your mind have taken you from the bleak state of reality. Much like a wand; you don’t get to choose being a writer, being a writer chooses you.
-Alyce
Find Alyce: Twitter Figment Pinterest
P.S. Since I’m new and don’t have a following, I know most people won’t be interested in this. I’m not meaning to appear narcissistic making this entire post about me and my life, but it is my blog and I promise there will be a review soon! Also, if you’re a writer, feel free to share your story.
Featured Image: https://pixabay.com/en/stack-letters-letter-handwriting-447579/
Alisan Keesee 