Why I Wrote My First Story
The Writers Kit
When I was little, as in before I could talk properly, I would scribble on paper thinking I was writing. My thoughts, friends, adventures, whatever it was all spread out on paper. I originally used that off white paper that was completely blank, every sheet was connected and meant to be torn. It had strips to shred off the sides with plenty of holes.
Later other than any random stick which could be used for, well, anything, my favorite toy was a see-through bag. It zipped on three sides that reminded me of a briefcase and made me feel important/smart. It's the little things. I can't remember the color the clearest however, it had rolled plastic around the edges like a picture frame. Maybe black, blue, purple, heck maybe pink. Watch it be pink. That little kid friendly and school friendly briefcase bag was my writers kit. Inside it amongst all the colorful stamps, markers, pens whose ink marked my skin more than paper, and the broken knives called colored pencils that stabbed me if I reached in too quickly and carelessly, were three notebooks. All three a midnight blue with glittery silver star outline that I'm 97% sure now was thread sewn into it. All three were barely held together by plastic rings not meant to last in a child's hand or crammed bag. I worked tirelessly to keep them from falling apart. I lost.
I know that explaining this may seem a little much but I feel like it's important information. My memory is NOT that great, and the fact that I can still see most of this in my minds eye tells me that personally it's worth sharing.
Agnes The Junk Lady and The beginning Of A Habit
The notebooks came in three different sizes: one larger than the size of a skillet, the medium was slightly bigger than a frying pan, and the tiniest was ever so smaller than an adult females hand.
I lost the big notebook... How? Possibly it fell into the void of lost things in one of the moves we made and ended up on Agnes The Junk Ladies back. The Momma Bears bed of the tree notebooks went into the bottom of the blue bin I used for a toy chest. The plastic lid had clips on the side, one of which was broken, and loved to pinch my hand any time I tried to open it. I think this was the start of me yelling at inanimate objects and meaning it. The runt of the notebooks became the place I wrote and finished my first story, no pictures. It was short, of course, though at the time it seemed never-ending. That notebook started my habit of carrying around paper to write on, and when I didn't have any I wrote on my wrist or legs. Yes I got in trouble for it, all of the time. No, I did not care. It's a habit I still preform today. I don't see that ending any time soon.
Giving It a Name
This book was an entire adventure that I would never have. Two sisters I had not. A witch? Also not me. Imagine my childhood disappointment. Okay, so maybe my adult life disappointment. No need to be picky. Now this adventure was a battle against this dark cloud that sucked people into it. This was my representation of something very real to me that I didn't know the name of. So I gave it a name. Henosa. No particular reason, it just sounded right. That was my villain, the antagonist of my existence at the time. Depression, anxiety, lack of self worth, and the mental embodiment of bullies. No one knew at that time, I would act with so much energy and always aimed to communicate with everyone. Laugh with everyone. Make everyone smile. I felt broken, and lonely even when I was the center of attention. I hated myself and believed everyone else did too. I saw everything related or not as proof of such. My villian a cloud just as intangible as the fear of being forgotten, or the death of everyone around you and you're helpless to change it which was my greatest fear at the time.
Now my heros, the protagonists. Three sisters whose characters were sprinkled by my soul, mind, and feelings. Their job was to fight, and win. They didn't win at first. Oh no, so many battles they had lost. They were scarred up and never the same even after their win in the end. That presence followed them until their last days. The bright side was that no one ever had to deal with the Henosa ever again. I started this story sometime before my eighth birthday. At this point I'm not sure if it was months, years, or days before. I couldn't tell you when I finished it to save my life either.
Is this familiar?
I Wrote It Because...
I wrote to give someone else a better life and to teach myself that people can defeat the monsters and hatred if they allowed themselves to. If they decided to. If they made the choice to act out instead of accepting the circumstances. I wrote it to tell myself that it was okay if my Henosa never left me, as long as I never let it win. That it would be worth it if I could somehow use it to help others, especially with their own clouds. I observed too many kids and adults alike. I saw the shift in postures when people believed they had escaped the gaze of peering eyes. I saw the heartbreaking experiences of my peers and their circumstances. I heard the shift in adults voices when they had to be strong so as to not to freak us kids out. When anyone acted like myself, trying too hard for a smile or a laugh. When it wasn't selfishness of wanting attention. I noticed too much to believe I was the only person who felt that way. I wanted to help. I needed to help, but I needed to be brave enough to face my own first. I wrote it to move on, and become a better human being. A better friend. Granted it wasn't until later that I realized that it was a temporary solution and that life sometimes throws things at you that you can't cope without help.
I quit writing for some time after that, and didn't start again for a couple years. When I did it was just random stories that I thought would be fun. Nothing wrong with that. It may or maynot count, however that is what I consider my first novel.
Now I have a new purpose to write, and yet at its core, who knows? Maybe it's still the same. Why do you create your art? No matter the kind.
For Your Entertainment,
© 2019 Nik Farr Havock