Eliza Bronx

“To define is to limit.” - Oscar Wilde

[elizabronx]

If I could tell my younger self

I haven't been able to stop myself from thinking this week. If I could tell my younger self, where I am today, would she be proud of me? Simply put - I finally think so. Everyone in my life knows that I am my own harshest critic. I hold myself to my own impossible standards, unreachable to almost all, especially in the academic sense.

Of course, this has led me to my fair share of imposter syndrome and all sorts of other problems. Yes, my obsessiveness and impossibly high standards may be my own greatest enemy and that is something I am still battling on the daily. But they are also the reason I got to where I am today.

If I could tell that little girl who was good at maths. If I could tell that 13-year old who was depressed and ready to give up. If I could tell that 15-year old whose greatest failures were shown on national TV. If I could even tell myself from two months ago... I doubt she would believe me.

Two weeks ago I thought that I was entering my fourth wave of depression. By today I am happy to say that I am no longer living in that fear. Of course it might come back whenever but fortunately that scare was not the one.

So what has changed since? In my last post I said that I am now a woman in STEM and even though at that point it felt more like a dream than reality, my dream has taken some great steps forward.

About a month ago I was approached with an opportunity that I am incredibly happy I took. And just two days ago I spoke at my first conference. Yes, it was just for a few minutes and not on the topic I am mostly specialising towards. But it was still a win in my book. That is just one of the several incredible opportunities I've had this week but it does still seem more a dream than reality.

I did say that I was no longer a writer and I stand by it. But I am still a girl that wants to shout from the rooftops. And this is the house I chose.

[elizabronx]

A writer no more

To be honest, I've been wanting to write this for a while now. But before we get to that, let's rewind a bit.

It all started when I was about 12. I got an idea for a story. For a character. For a name which I identified with more than my own for a while. Elizabeth Bronx. The main character of my novel and the name for myself as a writer. That's when my dream began.

I dreamt of being a writer. For years I thought I was going to study literature and become an editor all the while writing my own novels and working towards being a famous bestselling author. Was I good enough for that to be realistic? Absolutely no idea.

My first year of high school I was pretty open about what I wanted to do with my life and who I wanted to become. I was so in love with that lifestyle and really felt like it was what I wanted to do forevermore. That was my most creative year. I wrote and rewrote the most I ever have. My main focus was still my novels but I also had some poems. Some of which still make me cry, some of which I've forgotten entirely.

That year however, something shifted.

I can't really remember when it happened. But at some point I realised I can't live a life without science. And then the search began. If not a writer, who? Who am I? Who do I want to be?

And that brings be to today. A writer no more, so who am I now?

I'm a woman in STEM. Hopefully a future scientist, though I'm still at university. I'm a down-to-earth no-bullshit kind of person, but still a dreamer. A realist who allows her mind to wander. A person who has a goal and will walk through the gates of hell to reach it.

In many ways I'm still the same person. In many more ways I've changed more since starting this blog than I thought possible. And in many ways I've come back to who I was as a child, before the trauma I was healing as a writer.

Will I ever come back to writing? Honestly, who knows. I still feel like there are stories in me but I'm not sure if I'll ever be able to do them justice. And I'm not sure if I even want to. Writing is something I've enjoyed so much. But it might also be a thing that belongs in my past. Only time will tell...

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Slipping away

These past few weeks I've been reading some of my old work. I read this blog in search of some posts I seem to have deleted permanently. A thing I regret now but know was necessary at the time.

The blog reminded me of the book I started a few years ago. I am a dancer. The story of a hundred dancers of which I've sometimes talked on here too. So I read that draft too, almost crying at every chapter.

Part of me was crying because of the story itself. Every dancer's story is in part inspired by my own, though I never made it as far in the dance world. But a part of me wanted to cry because of the writing itself.

I remember how I wrote one of those stories. In the middle of a school day, undisturbed by everything surrounding me because the words just came to me. Back then I was pretty open about being a writer and proud of it.

Once I started university, something changed. I don't think I've written even once since, besides a few blog posts. I think it's really been about three years since I last wrote any fiction.

The thing is that words don't really come to me like that anymore. I've been wanting to write a blog post for weeks now, beginning and then deleting all after a few lines. It seems that the way I had with words has been gradually slipping away from me, so slowly that I never even noticed.

Hardly anyone new I've met even knows that I am, or maybe just used to be a writer. Even the ones who know, don't know anything about the universes I built in my head. I was in a relationship for almost two years without saying a word and likewise, I didn't say a word about it on my blog until it had ended.

And to be honest, I'm not even sure if I myself remember all the stories I once kept in my head. Quite few of them never made it on paper and in a way I'm afraid those might be lost forever.

The truth is, I'm not sure if I'll ever fully come back to writing. It's a part of myself that I miss but I'm not entirely sure I still have enough to say. Or in fact, enough words to say it.

[elizabronx]

A first snow love

Two years ago, when first snow fell, was the first time you walked me home. Today fell the first snow of the year. Today, two days after you told me you didn't love me anymore.

I remember that first day so well. The first time you took my hand as we left your place. The excitement of a first date.

I knew it was going to end. After all, it wasn't a secret.

But until I saw that first snow, a part of me did not believe.

As we became full circle, I was set free.

[elizabronx]

A broken child

Growing up, I was the gifted child. I started school early. I was the first in my year to win a big science competition. I was always the smart kid, the numbers kid.

I felt the pressure, but instead of an outside source, my biggest pressure came from the inside. How could I not be better than my sister? How could I let those other kids be better than me, if I was the first at being best? How could I not be the best at everything?

That pressure, with me being the biggest source for it, became a hole. By 13, I was stuck in that hole. Depression creeped up on me, and stole almost two years of my life. I consider myself lucky that it didn't take any more.

I came out of that depression by myself. No therapist, no mental health guidance. And I was so proud of myself for that. For a while I saw the world in brighter colours. Once again, I was the first. The youngest-ever competitor in a science competition. The first to be accepted to my high school, one of the best in the country.

I even went as far as graduating with the highest honours. I just wouldn't give up. I had a goal in front of me and I couldn't quit.

My last year of high school, I basically skipped summer. I worked from the first day of summer to the last. And when school started, I kept on working, even did a tutoring lesson almost daily in addition to my other job. And I made it, didn't lose my honours and never missed a shift. Even with two 20-minute nosebleeds in one shift.

Again, I was proud of myself. I knew just how much work that took and I celebrated it.

In my first semester of university, I didn't cry once. I buried myself in school, in my hobbies, in tutoring lessons. I met my boyfriend.

But somewhere along the way, I left a big part of myself behind.

Now, a year and a half later, I've started to pick up the pieces of my former self. I've read the books I loved as a teen. I've watched the movies we watched as children. I've relived the moments I've missed.

I feel more like myself than I have in a long time. The only problem is, the only self I have left was 13 years old and depressed. A broken child.

[elizabronx]

An old promise to myself

There was a girl Barely 9 years of age She opened a book For the film had made her day

She soon came to see That what had once been surreal Was now within her grasp It wasn’t just a dream

That book became her rock She’d never felt so free

12 years of age She cried cause it was over Writing was her comfort 13 she was by then

By 16 she’d forgotten What magic lies beneath Once more the book was opened Shocked she was indeed

She found the dreams Of the 9-year old girl And once again she knew Why her rock had never failed her

At 17 she wrote A research she had hoped Would give her closure But once more She found she could not let it go Again it was her rock

Now 18 years of age Half of her life she’s spent With the wings of a dragon Carrying her on Not one day of regret

Her rock had carried her Made her go on And not once she’d ever felt The world could go wrong

Because that 9-year old Had given her defence From what could shadow her And that had saved her since

This is a poem I wrote at 18. At 17 and 18, my writing was at its peak. I was passionate about it, did it almost every day even though my schedule was crazy, I was living and breathing the Bronx girl life, as I like to call it. I was planning to publish this poem the day the Inheritance Cycle had been in my life for half of it, but then my writing passion was starting to fade. Now, as a part of the #EragonRemake storm I'm finally ready to share my story.

My story starts with a nine year old girl, unsure of everything. I remember we rented the movie Eragon, since my sister had read the books and never seen the movie. Not knowing anything of the books, I actually liked the film at first. But the next day I went to my sister's room and took the book. It was more than I ever imagined. My world changed forever that day.

Of course, one I'd read the books, I was incredibly underwhelmed by the movie. But I'm still somewhat grateful since I don't know if I'd ever read the books without it.

I remember the day when I was 12, it was near Christmas and the translation of the last book, Inheritance was finally out. It was nearly a snowstorm outside but I didn't care. I took my savings and went and got the book first chance I got.

The night I finished it, I cried through the last chapters. That same night, I started my first-ever piece of writing. An absolutely empty piece of fanfiction of what would happen next, fuelled by my sadness, but that's where I started.

By 13 I'd long forsaken the fanfiction side of things and was mapping out my own book, the Bronx Chronicles. I was about to enter the worst years of my life so far, and writing was my rock. But I'm pretty sure somewhere along the lines I forgot where I started.

Though I might have forgotten where I started, I remember my mum telling me later that those years the only way she could get me to talk was when I talked about the hard life of Galbatorix. I didn't think of it as my roots, but I think deep down I still knew.

At 16 I knew I'd forgotten much of the books so I decided to read them all in four days. A book in a day. By then it had been years since I'd read them and mu years of depression took away much of my memories. But I was amazed that the books I was a fan of at just 9 had still so much for me to discover. It did take me five days though.

That same spring, when having to choose a topic for my high school research paper, I decided to study the series even further, through the Ancient language. The research paper is one of the most-dreaded parts of high school and yet I enjoyed every minute of writing it.

By 18, half of my life had been accompanied by these books. But as my writing inspiration was at a low-point, I didn't fulfil my promise to myself and left the story to myself.

Now, at 20 I finally feel it's time to share my words. It's the first time the world has seen one of my poems and though it was written on a whim and in a single sitting, I'm proud of the emotion it carries. I know it isn't a masterpiece, but it's a little piece of myself.

[elizabronx]

A train from home to home

My first day at university. My first week. My first month. And then a bit. More memories than would fit into the span of five weeks but too few to last even a week. The things done a month ago only just happened, while those that happened a week ago were a lifetime ago. 

It doesn’t seem like a month since the times we rode our bikes just because we could or since I said my first goodbye to the place I’ve called my home for 14 years.

But it seems so much more than a week since I talked to one of my closest friends, since my new friends surprised me for my birthday and definitely more than two weeks since I first met some of them.

The truth is, the first month or so of university life, messes up your track of time. It didn’t feel like I was away from home for three weeks for the first time in my life. And to be honest, my on-campus home feels so much more like home than I really ever imagined. 

And right now, sitting on the train from my one home to the other, it doesn’t feel like just two days since I made the journey the other way around, but it also feels like I just left the dorm to go home. 

It’s a train from home to home, one so dear and one so exciting. 

[elizabronx]

To my seasonal love,

You were my spring goodbye.

Two years ago, you gave me a spring of excitement. A spring of sweetness. 

But I knew it couldn’t last. And with one last dance we said goodbye. At least for that once.

A year ago, you reminded me we were young. You made me throw away my worries.

And gave me a few last moments before it all changed. And we were never the same.

Six months ago, you made me afraid. Of the last time we’d say goodbye. You made me understand the bond we had. 

And you made me prepare for what was to come.

Three months ago, we had our last dance. We felt everything we had for years.

And it became out last goodbye. 

For now.

[elizabronx]

The words once written

I am a Dancer. The words I’ve said so many times in my life, their meaning got a bit empty a long time ago.

Up until about three years ago, when this simple sentence changed my entire writing life. 

I was a different person then. So much has changed, it is hard to believe it’s only been three years, but that’s when “I am a Dancer” became something more than just a simple statement for me.

It became a sentence that hid the stories of a hundred dancers. A sentence that started as an idea and a single four-page hand-written story and sparked something I still think of almost every day.

The truth is - I haven’t written anything in a while. And even when I have, it’s been something else lately. But it’s still close to my heart.

Today I read what I’d written and truth be told, I cried at every single chapter. Every dancer’s story I’ve told has been so special to me, almost even a part of myself and hides in it a small piece of my heart.

I fear I’ve lost a part of the touch I had with words at the time, but reading the words once written still makes me feel close to the girl I was when I wrote them. 

[elizabronx]

Let me tell you about my job

It’s a warm May afternoon. The year is 2018 and I’m in between my stage rehearsals for my last dance performance to date. I get a call from the company I applied to work for and we schedule an interview. 

At that point I was certain I would work there until the end of summer 2019 and collect money to go to university in Scotland this fall. A part-time job while trying to graduate first in one of the most competitive schools of my country. 

I started working there on June 14, excited, unaware of what would happen next. I worked as a barista for one year, one month and four days. I was a barista for the same coffee chain that I’ve been visiting since I first started drinking coffee.

Everyone always focuses on the negatives of a customer service job. The endless flow of customers, having to put up with anything and everything that comes in your way and having to hide your true emotions behind a smile all the time. But let me tell you why I loved my job.

The community we built at our “home” café in the year I was there, was nothing short of a family. They were, and very much are to this day, my friends, my family, my everything. Our café was our own. We were under a bigger management, but in many things still left to our own devices and therefore, able to do everything our way.

I was the second in command. Maybe the one with less hours during school months, and never officially, but I was the right hand girl for any and every problem, happy to help. And I absolutely loved that I could help people with no actual obligation or consequence for when and if I couldn’t. But I loved training new baristas and being there for them.

The sheer love for coffee. I went through a period this winter, when I didn’t drink coffee for four months. But the love for making coffee never disappeared. In fact, my first latte art experiments came from that time. 

The frequent customers who made me smile and always made a bit of small talk. The old lady whose order I always knew and who always noticed when I had a really good day with latte art. 

The feeling of satisfaction. At some point I started to feel like a real boss girl whenever I realised I had done a task I had struggled with before with ease. I felt like I was really good at what I did and for some reason just knowing it myself was usually enough.

The tough days. We all have them. But coming back from some major mishaps is the strongest quality of any customer service employee. And when something minor cheered up a tough day, I knew it would be that much easier to carry on with a smile. Because more often than not, my customer service smile was sincere.

Even though I didn’t go to study in Scotland for the money I earned, I’m glad I didn’t give up my job earlier. I quit just in time to rest up and face university with a whole new fighting spirit. 

But I loved my job, the good days and the bad. Every decision I made there has made me stronger. I found myself another family. And I miss them every single day.

Anyone can hate a customer service job, but how many people can love it more than they hate it?

[elizabronx]

Ave atque vale

I remember seeing a film trailer from when I was about 13. Not long after, I saw my sister reading the books and buying a new one every time it came out in Estonian. So one day, I picked the first one up. Just to see what the fuss was about.

Before I even realised, I was through with the first five, awaiting the last one. City of Heavenly Fire. The book that, once I got it, I carried around with me for days. And I was so mad when one of my best friends spoiled an important event for me just a few pages before it happened. 

I remember drawing the Parabatai rune on one of my best friends. That must have been my 15th birthday. We drew the runes and read the vows. I guess we didn’t know at that time that just a year later we’d drift apart. But we never forgot.

And I remember how excited we were that the books were being turned into a series that could, maybe, do them some justice.

When the series first came out, I was in awe. It was never just like the books. But the new reality they’d created inspired by them, instead of making me angry in some way made me happy. Some parts of it even felt more natural than in the books.

But when I heard the series was going to end, I didn’t know what to expect. In a way they’d spent three seasons getting the series started and having just half a season to finish, I was scared to see the result.

But it was better. So much better than I’d expected. Everything I loved about the books was there and more. Cliffhangers, crazy plotlines that eventually make sense, family that isn’t always connected by blood and love stories that break the boundaries they were created upon. 

It was beautiful. 

But while I awaited to see what was going to happen, I always dreaded the goodbye. To be honest, I did not expect the end to be so sudden, or so cruel. For a moment or so it seemed that it could all end happily, but I was still afraid and not without a reason.

This series was one of the last things connecting the crazed fangirl I was at 14 and the 18-year old young woman of today. With saying goodbye to the series, I’m saying goodbye to myself as well. A part of me is and will always be left behind in the Shadow world. And to that part I say lovingly 

Ave atque vale.

[elizabronx]

Let’s talk about high school

To some people, high school is the peak of their social life, to some an important step in their education and for some an experience they wish would end sooner. But I doubt anyone leaves high school as the same person who entered it. So as my years of general education are nearly over, let’s talk a little bit of my own experience in high school.

As some of you may or may not know from my earlier posts, I live and go to school in Estonia, and my school is one of the best in the country. As an honours student, school has been one of my top priorities over the past few years even though it’s definitely not the only thing on my plate.

Entering high school three years ago (yes, it’s three years over here), I though of honours as something of a realistic goal that would actually make me work. Academically I’ve always been above average without any effort so my goals had to be high in order to make me really work for them. Honours was a personal goal, but also something that helped me work towards my dream of studying in Scotland.

With that plan in mind, the job I found for myself a year ago (hi there, I’m a barista) is something I’ve done part-time for a whole year of school. And to go even further, I’ve been doing tutoring classes up to five times a week for two years now.

So I guess it’s obvious. High school fucked me up. After deciding to not go to Scotland after all with all the Brexit mess but still keeping my job, my whole life started changing in October. Losing contact with a large part of my friends because of a bit of relationship drama, a light eating disorder and overworking myself on a daily basis with my purpose gone inevitably led me to a breakdown by mid-October. 

It was a difficult road from there, but eventually I chose to cut down on work a bit but still keep everything else going. And everything was going as well as it could really up until about a month ago. I took a few weeks off work to get my head straight before my first exam and what I discovered was worse than what I’d expected. 

It’s been over a week since the exam, my workload is significantly smaller than it’s been for about two years, but having worked straight since about September 2017, this much free time has led to a long-term, slow-burn breakdown.

I cry at everything. A sweet video, a song by someone I like, a series, a film. My emotions are uncontrolled and untamed.

I can no longer read. My room is full of books I want to read so bad but I just can’t pick one up. The preparation for my Estonian exam fucked up my love for books since I had to work through a lot of them in a very limited time.

My energy levels range from one extreme to the other with no way to predict them.

In general, I’m a mess and have recently rediscovered my old motto that braids will fake sanity for me. Because darling, sanity is a long way from where I am, but people see me as put together and okay.

To be honest, I’m not entirely sure if these consequences are worth the way there. But the road has been an incredible growing experience and I don’t know if I’d do anything differently even if I had the chance. I just hope I’ll bounce back from this one before life moves on without me. 

[elizabronx]

Perhaps...

In the past few years, poetry has become an increasingly big part of my creative life. 

It all started with a couple of rhymes on a snowy day when I was disappointed in a person I loved. By now, a wall in my room is covered with my own poems and there are a handful more that need completing. Simple little poems, significant to no one but me, but special in their own way nonetheless.

I love the simplicity of words and the magic they create by coming together. I love the rhythm that’s created just by a trail of thoughts. And I love that just a few lines can be made into a masterpiece.

For a while, I didn’t have a favourite poem. It’s really rare for me to have a certain favourite of anything really. I just either love something or I don’t. But this winter, when I had to look up a poem to recite at an event dedicated to WWI, I found something that touched me more than what I had expected of war poetry.

Knowing that everyone else was going to pick something from the trenches, something dark and twisted, but perhaps also humorous in a weird way, I knew I had to find something different. A letter from the ones at home.

Perhaps. Such a simple word, that hides a million possibilities. A poem by Vera Brittain, that I knew was destined for me as I read the dedication. Dedicated to her late fiancé, Ronald Aubrey Leighton, it carried the name of one of my own most beloved characters, Leighton. 

From that moment I knew this poem would touch me more than any other I’d ever read. A woman’s letter to the one she loved and was taken from her by war just months before their wedding. Pure emotion, shining through the seemingly simple words.

In a way this poem reminded me of my own style. The feeling that perhaps one day I’d love someone as much as she had took over my entire life for days when I read the poem over and over endless times. The sadness that had taken over her life. The emptiness the war had left behind to those who survived. 

As a writer myself I know that you have to survive the heartache to write about it. And even though I know it’ll happen to me one day and break me, this poem made me see that perhaps, one day, the heartache that you survive will surpass you. 

[elizabronx]

One last time

For three years now, I’ve talked about figure skating every April. It was always the weekend of maths nationals, a weekend I even looked forward to. And it was always a part of it to talk about Worlds, or the Olympics or what not.

This year, nationals was something I never even wanted to go to. But it is my last year of high school and my last time to do so. 

Nationals was two weeks ago. This time I didn’t end up even drafting a post. Truth be told, I was stressed. Just a week before the Estonian national examination, stress from work, school, tutoring lessons, trying to save my grades and so forth never left my side. De-stressing hadn’t even begun and in a way I was afraid to even think about anything other than the exam.

But just a few weeks earlier, it had been another story entirely. After a night of dance, laughter, long dresses and high heels at our own traditional version of prom, my road took me on a 4 hour-long bus drive just at the time of the men’s free skate. 

It was quite the image. Me sitting there on the bus, on my way to a family friend’s birthday, next to my mum, book on my lap, phone in my had with my notes on the book, and my iPad on the small table with the live stream. Truth be told, I waisted my entire data for the month on the first two or so warm-up groups so that by the time the big guns competed, I was in the middle of nowhere, using the WiFi of the bus, which, though better than expected, made me nervous I’d lose it just when Yuzuru starts skating.

I guess everyone who cares already knows how the competition ended. And everyone who knows me, knows that I am never happy with anyone beating Yuzu. But in a way, this loss was different.

The double Olympic champ is no longer here to prove his worth to the world. His legacy is timeless. It was made at the 2014 Olympics when his name became known to even those who doubted his ability. His legendary streak of clean programs in 2015 cemented his GOAT status and left no room to question his talent. 

His Hope and Legacy performance in 2017 is still what I think of as one of the happiest moments in my life, when magic was made just in front of me and when my eyes could not believe what they saw. 

And his 2018 Olympics victory after so many struggles proved to everyone once again, that he cannot be forgotten and that his story is not yet complete. 

But his 2019 Worlds showed the world that greatness cannot and will not be translated into just numbers and scores. His skating is something beyond a single generation, it touches everyone who sees it. And for that he doesn’t always need to win. For the scores don’t reflect the effect he has on people. They don’t show the love he has for the sport and the love people have for him.

One last time, this post is dedicated to my mathematics nationals. One last time I saw how my journey of almost two decades was translated into scores that were not what I would’ve hoped. But I know that all of this cannot be translated without the loss of love, passion and emotion. One last time, and this time I’m happy it’s over.

One last time, and once I post this, my connection with nationals will be gone. My figure skating posts won’t end here - maybe just for this season - but this stage of my life has ended. And once it’s out there, there is no turning back. 

[elizabronx]

Bronx Chronicles Chapter 2 - The one that made me break my promise

The journey of rewriting my started months ago, the fountain pen in my hand the same one that took me on another journey years ago and that has seen me through years of high school.

I didn’t know what my journey - this time the story of the original Eliza Bronx - would do to me. Or really what I would do the story. But quite early on I saw, that a promise that I had made myself years ago could not last me through all of it.

What made me start this story in the first place was a depressed girl in need of love greater than her own life. Years later, that girl is a young woman who knows, that love has its ups and downs. And for the ups to be real and special, the lows can’t just disappear.

I promised myself once that I would never break this love. But for it to be unbreakable one day, it needs to be broken and healed the day before. 

[elizabronx]

Bronx Chronicles Chapter 1 - At least a happy beginning

As a young girl, I never remember dreaming of love. I was a child whose parents got divorced and who got to dreaming about being in love many years after.

Since then, I have grown to become a person who, at least in her own eyes, has so much love to give to the world. 

And becoming a writer is partly just channeling that love I have to the characters I’ve created myself. It takes so much time, energy and inspiration to create a character, you just can’t help but to fall in love with them even a little bit.

And a part of why I’ve always known I’d return to writing is that a part of me, how ever small it is at the given time, cannot let go of her beloved characters and let them down by never telling their story. 

As many YA books are, my story has its ups and downs. However, I still want to give myself and the characters some happy moments that are so pure and full of joy, my own heart bursts just writing them. The first chapter is definitely one of them. We start on a happy high note, no matter what the future brings.

And in terms of the future, to be entirely honest, I have no idea where it’ll take me and this novel. As I said in my previous post, I started this rewrite with just a general plan and the pen in my hand. I take it wherever my mood takes me. 

This first chapter is full of love - the one I have for writing and the one that has kept me close to it for all those years. This happy beginning is a gift to myself that I have promised myself for years, to have a calm moment before the storm that the Bronx Chronicles will turn into.

But for now, I’ll just enjoy the start and the beauty of it all coming together against all odds.

[elizabronx]

Bronx Chronicles Prologue - So long overdue

Yes, I’m back. And this time to bring you another post about my writing. If you scroll back just a bit you’ll see I’ve written this kind of posts before, about another project of mine, every time I complete a chapter. But this time I’m here to tell you a little something about the book that got me to writing in the first place.

The first time I got some ideas for this book and the first time I even started to think of maybe becoming a writer some day in the very distant future was almost six years ago. The first time I penned a few words for this novel was almost five years ago. The time I wrote daily for it was four years ago.

And yet, this is the day I get to blogging about it. Why not sooner? And why am I starting from telling you about the very first chapter?

Well, the answer is actually a bit more simple than you might imagine. The early drafts of this novel and the timeline for it were written by a 13-year old. As years have passed, I have deemed most of these ideas immature and unrealistic even for a young adult fiction novel. Timelines were often too tight, giving no time for characters to form their relationships or storylines to develop naturally ad everything just felt unnatural.

And while the general big plan of this novel’s plot is something I hold very dear to me, most of the things I had written before these last few months are something I do not think would do any justice to the amazing characters I have planned for this adventure.

So, just before Christmas, after years upon years of more or less consistent hiatus, I returned to the world of the Bronx Chronicles. It was long-long overdue, however I know that every one of these years has helped me become the author I am now.

I took it up on a complete empty page. I started from nothing, besides the general plan and the pen in my hand. I started it again and I feel like nothing’s changed. In fact, that’s what the characters always had in store for them and I know, that the author I was earlier just couldn’t channel the love she had for them.

Now, at 18 years of age, I am finally ready to start the journey again. I was not strong enough to walk the walk last time, falling into the hole of depression and struggling to crawl out knowing, that writing was what put me down there and got me out all in one.

This time I know I won’t fall there again.

Forever yours, Eliza Bronx, Writer against all odds