100 Days of Writing - 21
One fifth of the way there!
When I was five, my mom ask me to tell her a story and she wrote it out and I drew the pictures. I have no memory of making it except for a vague satisfaction over drawing a mirror and an old lady reflection. Like I really thought I nailed it.
I used crayons, naturally, and my mom hand wrote the story I dictated. It made no sense and involved a house burning down but it's my earliest work- the spark of my potential.
In about grade 6 I was invited to attend this young authors conference and I was so flattered to go, still to this day I think about how that impacted my desire to write stories and reignited the little spark in me to keep at it.
But high school was different. Writing was harder, there were more distractions and tough teachers, but I found a zest for public speaking and enjoyed the opportunity (any opportunity, really) for performance. I'll never forget going to the regional public speaking "championships" and showing up in a superman tshirt, grey cardigan, fat wide pants and a giant beaded necklace, only to realize this was a dress-up affair. Or maybe I knew that the whole time and did it anyway. My speech was about individuality so it was on brand.
I wish someone had sat me down and pointed me to the path to becoming a published writer. It's this "published" piece that legitimizes it for me, and in my own way, I find the publish button on this blog happily simulates it for me.
I've been battling my ideas this month; looking out into the sphere of my creativity and not knowing which strand to pull on, what idea to feed, to water, to help grow. I'm not sure which ideas are good and which are bad. The people around me right now have well thought-out ideas, pitches even, and I'm just like... DOH. More time for meditation on this is needed.
Major Lazer,
Katie
When I was five, my mom ask me to tell her a story and she wrote it out and I drew the pictures. I have no memory of making it except for a vague satisfaction over drawing a mirror and an old lady reflection. Like I really thought I nailed it.
I used crayons, naturally, and my mom hand wrote the story I dictated. It made no sense and involved a house burning down but it's my earliest work- the spark of my potential.
In about grade 6 I was invited to attend this young authors conference and I was so flattered to go, still to this day I think about how that impacted my desire to write stories and reignited the little spark in me to keep at it.
But high school was different. Writing was harder, there were more distractions and tough teachers, but I found a zest for public speaking and enjoyed the opportunity (any opportunity, really) for performance. I'll never forget going to the regional public speaking "championships" and showing up in a superman tshirt, grey cardigan, fat wide pants and a giant beaded necklace, only to realize this was a dress-up affair. Or maybe I knew that the whole time and did it anyway. My speech was about individuality so it was on brand.
I wish someone had sat me down and pointed me to the path to becoming a published writer. It's this "published" piece that legitimizes it for me, and in my own way, I find the publish button on this blog happily simulates it for me.
I've been battling my ideas this month; looking out into the sphere of my creativity and not knowing which strand to pull on, what idea to feed, to water, to help grow. I'm not sure which ideas are good and which are bad. The people around me right now have well thought-out ideas, pitches even, and I'm just like... DOH. More time for meditation on this is needed.
Major Lazer,
Katie
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