Something I wrote on a Monday Night
Sometimes I forget that I can write, which is strange because I don't think people usually forget their passions. Not unless there is a reason.
Years ago, I would have laughed at the thought that I had forgotten that can write. When I was in middle school (I feel old thinking about those years, even though I am only 24 years old), I fell in love with reading. The books that made me fall in love with reading were Percy Jackson, and along with falling in love with reading, I fell in love with writing. I remember telling my friends back then how I would write my stories, how I would try to let people feel the same way reading my stories as the Percy Jackson books let me feel It's the fact that they made me feel anything at all. I had never had that happen from something like a story. Tv shows and movies had never made me cry, let alone books. Sure, before these books, I had read others, but it wasn't the same. The books I read before hadn't made me feel as understood as these had, and in 7th grade the obsession grew and so did my love for storytelling, in experiencing someone else's and learning how to do my own. My love grew so much that when I reached 8th grade and was given the assignment to write my own story following the hero's archetype, I was the only person in my class to receive an A. I remember being so happy and hopeful for my storytelling future. I wonder what my past self would say when I tell them that my heart is broken. That the love I once felt has been drowned by the reality of this cruel world we exist in. What would she say if she knew that the same teacher who introduced her to Percy Jackson called her a genius, and I couldn't even be happy about it because I am more burnt out than I am in love with storytelling. I want nothing more than to tell my stories to have people cry, laugh, love, and live with me and my characters in the worlds I build in my mind and on paper. The only problem is I can't put them on paper, I can't even voice them because I choke up or simply mess up because I am no longer confident in my storytelling. Maybe I never was. Maybe that was my problem. How can I be confident when my immediate support group (my family) isn't supportive? Not in the ways that matter. How, when I try to tell them my stories, I am ignored, talked over, or told that what I was talking about doesn't interest them. Maybe they just aren't the right audience for my stories, which is sad because shouldn't they be my first audience? Is it strange that more strangers have read/heard my stories than the number of my family members multiplied by ten? I've been writing this now for a while, longer than I've written anything in months. Maybe this is what I needed. Maybe I had to tell part of my story before continuing any of the other ones I've invested my time, blood, sweat, tears, and who remembers what else into. Maybe this is how I get back on track to genius. Maybe this is how I get back to the title: Storyteller
