It's been too long.
I'm not even sure what I want to say. I guess I want to apologize and promise to do better.
But not to you.
I started writing around the age of thirteen. I wrote dumb little stories about not a whole lot and trite poems that expressed feelings of tiny teenage romantic frustrations. That much, at least, hasn't really changed. Then I started reading fanfiction. It started with Sailor Moon, I think, that the story I was given wasn't enough, and the imagination of fanfiction opened up the possibilities of more. When I started reading Harry Potter, Ginny Weasley was instantly my favorite character. There was something about her unrequitedness that I really identified with (and still do). And I knew, without a doubt, that she belonged with Harry, despite the fact that, as I remember it, there weren't any hints that they might date until at least the fifth book. So I wrote that. I found a website, Sink Into Your Eyes, which, despite the cringe of its title, was a great site that focused on the pairing that I knew to be fact, if it wasn't yet.
And that's how I became a writer. I started writing about other things, about my ideas, my characters, my plotlines. I loved the creativity of it, coming up with names and worlds, contriving ways for them to meet, clever ways to say, "and they lived happily ever after." Meanwhile, I was still voraciously reading, just about all the time. I remember a time when we'd visit the library every week, and I'd get six or seven or eight new books to read. Each new week, I'd read every one of those books. Even in college, even with assigned books on top of those I chose. And I still wrote. The poetry was just as trite, but I think it was getting better. I learned so much about how to form a story, how to avoid certain pitfalls, like using clichés. (Obviously, I haven't let go of them entirely.)
And then I just stopped. No, not totally, I wrote in this blog at least a few times a year for four years after I graduated. I'm not sure that should count. But I haven't written a story since the last one I wrote for a class. And I haven't written a poem in a year. And those are easy. Relatively. I can count the number of books I've read in the past five years on two hands. And that's disappointing. I used to dream of being a writer, a paid writer, like Meg Cabot. Living in New York City or Alaska (or literally anywhere, because that's where you can live as a writer).
I let the fear of failing stop me. I certainly don't consider myself to be the first and only person to have done it. And maybe this is trite and a whole lot of nothing. I did provide that disclaimer.
Despite everything that's happened until now, I promise to you, tiny little Heather, with your big dreams and sparkly blue shoes, that I'll try harder to be someone you'd be happy to grow up as.
Though I can't promise NYC. Apparently, Nikki won't let us live there.
But not to you.
I started writing around the age of thirteen. I wrote dumb little stories about not a whole lot and trite poems that expressed feelings of tiny teenage romantic frustrations. That much, at least, hasn't really changed. Then I started reading fanfiction. It started with Sailor Moon, I think, that the story I was given wasn't enough, and the imagination of fanfiction opened up the possibilities of more. When I started reading Harry Potter, Ginny Weasley was instantly my favorite character. There was something about her unrequitedness that I really identified with (and still do). And I knew, without a doubt, that she belonged with Harry, despite the fact that, as I remember it, there weren't any hints that they might date until at least the fifth book. So I wrote that. I found a website, Sink Into Your Eyes, which, despite the cringe of its title, was a great site that focused on the pairing that I knew to be fact, if it wasn't yet.
And that's how I became a writer. I started writing about other things, about my ideas, my characters, my plotlines. I loved the creativity of it, coming up with names and worlds, contriving ways for them to meet, clever ways to say, "and they lived happily ever after." Meanwhile, I was still voraciously reading, just about all the time. I remember a time when we'd visit the library every week, and I'd get six or seven or eight new books to read. Each new week, I'd read every one of those books. Even in college, even with assigned books on top of those I chose. And I still wrote. The poetry was just as trite, but I think it was getting better. I learned so much about how to form a story, how to avoid certain pitfalls, like using clichés. (Obviously, I haven't let go of them entirely.)
And then I just stopped. No, not totally, I wrote in this blog at least a few times a year for four years after I graduated. I'm not sure that should count. But I haven't written a story since the last one I wrote for a class. And I haven't written a poem in a year. And those are easy. Relatively. I can count the number of books I've read in the past five years on two hands. And that's disappointing. I used to dream of being a writer, a paid writer, like Meg Cabot. Living in New York City or Alaska (or literally anywhere, because that's where you can live as a writer).
I let the fear of failing stop me. I certainly don't consider myself to be the first and only person to have done it. And maybe this is trite and a whole lot of nothing. I did provide that disclaimer.
Despite everything that's happened until now, I promise to you, tiny little Heather, with your big dreams and sparkly blue shoes, that I'll try harder to be someone you'd be happy to grow up as.
Though I can't promise NYC. Apparently, Nikki won't let us live there.
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