Branching Out (Plus: what made me decide to be a writer in the first place)

For a few months I've been particularly swamped with schoolwork, as it was my first term at Portland State University (as an English major — yay!), and these past few weeks I've finally had the solace of winter break. During this time I prepared for next term and did a lot of reading and writing. I'm trying to branch out more in the literary arts by delving into more than just children/teen fiction and fantasy. I used to only be interested in these genres because I stubbornly believed that writing about everyday life was boring. However, I've been changing my perspective lately and approaching the art of writing with a more open mind. Reading different authors' pieces in school has helped as well (as un-fun as it was doing seemingly endless homework on it all), and I'm starting to realize that I can actually have fun writing creative nonfiction, like short prose about memories or essays on personal experiences. After all, it was someone's essay about a personal experience I read, long ago in sixth grade, that gave me goosebumps and made me think, Who knew that words could be used to relive such meaningful experiences? Who knew you could recreate an event with only a pen and paper?

In my making-up of fictional tales, I seemed to have forgotten about that one time when I was eleven. That was a very significant day; it was during my Language Arts class, which was quickly becoming my favorite class, though I wasn't sure why at the time. While I waited for class to start I pulled out our textbook. As I flipped though the pages, not looking at anything in particular, I noticed something that caught my eye and caused me to go back a few pages. I gasped internally. I was on a page that mentioned Splash Mountain, the name of one of my favorite rides in one of the greatest places in the world, Disneyland (in my opinion, anyway). It was an example essay for a chapter on — you guessed it — writing about personal experiences. The way the essay was written was like a story, complete with the narrator's excitement about the ride, joy at seeing the characters, apprehension about the drop at the end, and suspense as the narrator ascended to the top. The impression this short piece of writing made on me was so great that I actually wanted to purchase the book for myself, or at least find the essay online, so I could read it again and again.

But this, I believe, was what made me realize that I wanted to write and create. I wanted to be able to write like this. I wanted to be able to elicit feelings in other people using just my written words. (And, being autistic, this was a fantastic way of finding a new and different way to communicate with people and express myself.) And shortly after I left middle school to be homeschooled for a few years, I had the time to work with that newfound passion and write my first book when I was thirteen, a fantasy/adventure novel called ArJarelia: The Discovery. When I entered high school, I self-published it and sold copies to friends and family. To this day, I still have plans for it.

Anyway. That's that story of my recent realization. Time to...write other stories.