I didn’t always want to be a writer. Now that I’ve said that, let me tell you the series of events that led to me becoming what I am now. A writer. A stubborn, set in my ways, writer.
My parents would like to attribute any part of my writing talent to their genes. My mom told me that she wrote a poem when she was a kid and her school annually picked a “poem winner” and made a song out of it and they chose her poem, but it was too dark to be made into a song. Makes me proud, honestly.
In the third grade, we had to make these sentences out of spelling words. I saw it as another assignment, but there was this genius kid that made a riveting story about sharks out of the spelling sentences and that made everyone applaud him. Even the teacher.
Being the bookworm/teacher’s pet that I was, I took my spelling sentences and made a story about a girl with a little sister who gets lost and had to fight a bear and get a crystal ball. I think? I can’t remember exactly. But the teacher and the class loved it. With the sweet taste of victory, I quickly made a sequel, which was reviewed with less five-star ratings, but the memory of loving that girl with the lost sister stuck with me. That girl’s name was (drumroll) Alice.
That name probably means nothing to you, but right then, it meant everything to me. The idea of Alice just always stuck around and evolved. Alice was strong and capable of anything. Brave and fearless. She seemed to come to my rescue whenever I most needed her.
Then, when I was in the fifth grade, my father gave me his old typewriter. Why? I have no idea. It mostly just collected dust until me and my sister got in a fight. It ended with me “stabbing” her with a pencil. I didn’t really stab her, I just poked her in the foot with the intent to make her mad and escalate the fight. I didn’t say I was a very nice fifth grader, ok.
Anyways, it made my parents really mad and they made me write “I will not stab my sister in the foot with a pencil” 5oo times (500 because I was in fifth grade) and as my sore hand ached, I just stared at the typewriter and swore that I would learn to type, and type efficiently, so I did. An invaluable skill for a writer. I wonder what happened to that old typewriter.
Flash forward to when I was twelve. My grandfather was very sick and we traveled across the country to be close to him. This was a difficult time for me. I was away from my home and living on the couch of my grandparent’s house. I missed my dad a lot. (we couldn’t afford for him to come with us) I was worried about my mom and my sick grandpa. And I just altogether didn’t want to be there.
Everyday, our fun uncle played this game with us called “Alphas”. It was basically just us going around the yard pretending that we had control over a certain element. Earth, wind, fire, or water. I preferred to be wind because then I also had the power to wield static electricity. Then my uncle was the Alpha, always. He was in charge of us and was always teaching us how to use our powers and fight evil.
Then, for no reason other than boredom, I opened a word document on my mom’s laptop and decided to write about our adventures, using Alice as my protagonist. Letting her world fill mine. It was my escape and I enjoyed writing it, but I was twelve. And I still have a papercopy of my story, but it doesn’t make any sense at all. Honestly, I’m a little embarrassed to share it with anyone now, but as soon as I finished it a year later, I shared it with everyone. And that scares me, knowing that several people saw the garbage that I created.
But I still can’t get Alice out of my head. I can still hear her calling to me.
After that, I didn’t really want anything to do with writing. I just wanted to live my life. But for the life of me, I can’t remember what I did with my life before I wrote. Did I just drool in front of the TV all day? I can’t even remember. I guess I went out and saw the sun sometimes.
Flash forward again and I’m a cynical fifteen-year-old, looking to find fault in everything. My cousins come over and we get bored and watch Twilight, just to make fun of it. (BTW, I have an unhealthy fixation on hating the Twilight Saga. I could give a lecture on why I think it’s the worst, but I won’t. I’ll save that for another day.) And as I’m watching it, I think to myself,
I bet I could make a story just like this. That’s right, I’ll make a Twilight parody and it’ll be hilarious and make people laugh. Only, I’ll make the love interest a ghost, not a vampire. And the protagonist will be semi-interesting. And she’ll be a smart allack and a dancer and…
Things just sort of spiraled from there. And I created “Ghost in the Basement”. Starring Ean and Max (Maxine). Ean with an E because he was based off of Edward, but the more I created him and drew him out, the more he became his own person and nothing like Edward.
Basically, it’s a story about a girl who falls in love with a ghost that she’s known all her life, but forgot she knew about him. He’s pretty much stuck living in her house, haunting it and blah blah blah.
In the second book, her witch friend (oh yeah, there’s witches in the story) turn Ean, the ghost, into an alive human, giving him the capability to do whatever he wants and go wherever he wants and blah blah blah.
And then I fell hopelessly in love with writing. With the idea of story telling. I just couldn’t get my mind off of my next project. My life started to revolve around writing. Not to mention, my last name is Wright, so really, it’s destiny.