My first memories are of reading with my parents. My favorites then included Peter Pan and anything by Doctor Suess. I would follow my parent's fingers as they pointed to what they read. My mom did reading lessons with me. It began a love of reading and the English language that would and will last me throughout my entire life.
I was enchanted with reading, not writing. I would sometimes make up my own stories and on very rare occasions write a poem. However, essays and reports always frustrated me. I loved the feeling of completion, yet the beginning always discouraged me.
When I was 11, my grandpa had a heart attack. It made me realize my mortality. I felt fragile and suddenly vulnerable. This, coupled with the fact that I was moving at the same time, made the world, as I knew it, seem gloomier. In short, my image of the world was shattered.
However, right after my grandpa’s heart attack he and my nanna decided to move into the rental house that was on our new piece of property. I was overjoyed! They would be living in my backyard. Soon after they moved, I realized that my grandpa wrote constantly. In fact, he wrote almost as much as I read. Then he wrote a book just for me. I loved it so much that I talked him into writing a sequel. He started the book, and quickly I was pulled into being his partner-in-writing. I began to love the writing process. We wrote an outline for a third book in the series. Then (promising that we would write that third book later) we started a new series.
We were on a roll.
In early January, about two years ago, my grandpa showed me a file that he had saved on his computer. It was only one page long and contained only three poems. My grandpa could tell from my confused eyes that I needed an explanation. He told me that when I was three, my mom had called him and read these same poems for him, I had written them. He had saved them in this file so that I could read them when I was older. He was proud of me and had tears in his eyes. Only one week later my Grandpa died. His heart had simply stopped at the age of 61.
After only 13 years of life, I knew the pain of death. I then remembered the words my grandpa uttered at a nameless date and time. He had said, “We can write together right now, but one day we won’t be able to. You will, someday, have to write on your own or not at all.”
The day after his death, I wrote a poem. Since then I have written poetry, short stories, essays, and reports, and have even published a few pieces of my work. I have learned from my grandpa, the love of writing. It is a magical process. I now know what it is to create your own paintings with words. I now look at a blank page and imagine what it can become, what I can make of it. Eventually, through hard work, practice, and learning I will become the writer I know I can become.
This is how I found my love of writing.