A Child’s Dream
I have always loved to write. One of my strongest memories was in the third grade. We were tasked with answering the famous question all adults ask children, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” I am sure my fellow classmates answered with common careers: a firefighter, a teacher, a secretary, a mom, possibly even an astronaut. I remember feeling so sure of myself, so confident in my answer, even though it was entirely unique. I wanted to be a writer.
In third grade, I could read, but I wasn’t the best or the fastest. I didn’t get called on to read the text aloud in class as frequently as others. I rarely got the opportunity to sit in the “reading castle” for those who finished work early and were allowed extra reading time. I remember wanting to read in there.
My favorite author was Marguerite Henry. I loved Misty of Chincoteague and poured over all her books and any other horse related book I could find. I didn’t have a horse, but I wanted one. Henry’s stories bridged that desire. She took me on an adventure, allowing me to experience what I couldn’t. She could craft a character that was exactly who I wished I could be, do the things I wished I could do, and experience the things that I wished I could experience.
How could I not want to do the same?
I started envisioning what I would have the character do, what obstacles I would toss in her way. I wanted the heroine to struggle a little more, the rescuing knight in shining armor to fall in love a little harder, and the adventure to never end, but if it must, to end victorious and happily.
Writing, Dreams, and Reality
As I progressed through elementary, middle, and high school, my dream to write never wavered. I sought out books that weren’t so happily ever after, where the character’s bad choices resulted in realistic outcomes. I loved them even more. Realism in fiction allowed me to see the realism in life. I realized well-written fiction is grounded in real life situations.
Really good books, fiction and nonfiction, are told with honesty. In reading them, we are given the opportunity to learn about others, experience as others have experienced, and live as others have lived. We step into the shell of someone else; see the world through their eyes, feel life through their fingertips, and process the thoughts in their heads. Books take us out of our norm and place us into someone else’s norm.
Somehow, my third-grade self understood this, and yearned to be a part of it.
Books are not only tickets to a great adventure, but also therapy and learning opportunities. They help us understand personal struggles by reading how others have navigated similar issues. Whether it be teenagers battling the onslaught of hormones and peer pressure, new parents attending to the needs of a newborn, or survivors overcoming tragedies. We can live victories we have not personally won, endure sorrows we have not personally suffered, and journey to places we have not personally seen.
I write to be a part of that process. For that third grader who wants to read all things horses, or that teenager that doesn’t understand her friend, or that new mom that struggles with parenting. I write for the reader who wants to experience, to learn, and to understand. I write because it helps me do the same.