I remember, vaguely, that I wanted to be a writer when I was a kid. I kept a journal from about age 9 through high school, but I didn’t do much in the way of fiction writing. Today, I was flipping through an old journal and found this from July 29, 2000 (when I was 12):
Ever since the fourth Harry Potter book came out, I’ve wanted to write a great series and be known for it. The problem is, it’s got to be something different and exciting. I’ve had ideas but none of them work. Any suggestions? Well, if anything comes to mind, let me know. And also, don’t tell anyone how much I want to be a writer.
I can’t even explain how much reading that warmed my heart. I love that I was inspired by Harry Potter back then and still am today. That’s the sign of a powerful book. And I really get a kick out of the fact that I talked to my journal like it was a person. I asked it for suggestions. (If only it had given some.)
But my favorite thing about this is that I was keeping my dream of being a writer a secret. It was something I only told my journal (how appropriate that I could only express my desire to write in writing). Back then, the possibility of writing a full-length novel seemed impossible. It wasn’t until nearly 12 years later that I finally finished one. But it’s not a secret anymore. Everyone who knows me knows I’m a writer. Everyone who reads this blog knows. It’s one of the first things I tell someone when getting to know them.
I wish I could go back 14 years and tell that 12 year old that one day, she’d write a book. In fact, she’d write 3, with more to come. And I also wish that my 14-years future self could come and tell present me if I’d be published. I wish she could tell me that it’ll all work out, writing-wise.
But now, for the moment, I feel validated. I feel justified in pursuing this seemingly impossible dream. After all, I’ve wanted it all along.