Recount of Life
As far as I can remember, my first ever writing was a scrawny retelling regarding a joyful eight-year-old's experience in a theme park. I had read it in front of the class, and back then, I was better at drawing than I was at forming stories.
During middle school, I drew at any given time. I drew on the back pages of my academic books, cluttering them with doodles bigger than the notes I'd written for classes. My writing, however, took its position on the sidelines: only called upon as teachers told me to write something. But I read. Oh, how many novels I'd read; fresh out of class with a giddy face just because I couldn’t wait to consume the stories. I began my fictional writing along that lane. Though, I knew it needed work.
By high school, I started writing short stories, a well-done job I may say—because people left kudos for the process that came from my heart. I realized that writing was comforting, even validating.
As I waited for the registration of a university, I read multiple fiction novels in just a week. I wrote tales after tales as if my fingers couldn’t bear to process another thing, fully sidelining the pencil I had slipped in between my sketchbook.
So, here I am, majoring in English Literature with a knack for creative writing. Finding a real home as I form words within the screen of my laptop, dreaming that one day, I might be sitting somewhere lavish as I work on my novel. Or, writing a fashion piece for a high-end magazine somewhere in an office stacked in a skyscraper.
