I watched the shadows change outside my window signalling that finally, finally, my night owl of a brother was retiring for the night.
I got out of my bed as quietly as possible, a feat made more difficult because of the unfortunate combo of me only seeming to get louder the harder I try to keep quiet, and the fact my bed frame was one from my Mother's childhood and was comprised of rusty metal springs that seemed to yelp with every calculating exhale I took. In a practiced manner, I lift the corner of my mattress with one hand and stick the other arm further underneath to pull out my bright orange notebook. Still holding onto the thin orange book, I pad on soft feet out of my room and into the living room. I watch the flames from the fire in the wood burning stove dance and wonder at how harmless they seem in their black steel cage.
I managed to open the stove door without too much of a creak and with one last look at my well used notebook, I toss it into the flames and watch as the first spark catches onto the dry paper and starts devouring my pages, my words.
But the spark wasn't really to blame, I was.
I was ashamed my stories. Of my voice.
I was afraid that someone would find them and tease me, or tell me they weren't good enough, or that they didn't like them. But perhaps I was really most fearful that I'd finally get the courage to do something with my words and then I'd really find out what I was made of. But I decided I'd rather stop trying than try and really fail.
Ten years and about just as many notebooks later, I find myself dwelling on this memory.
At first I comfort myself that I'm so different now. That I would never destroy my hard work like that, especially out of fear, which is why I have saved all my notebooks since.
But I'm not different. Not really. I may not let sparks consume my words and turn them into nothingness, but I let dust settle over my pages and doubt settle in my heart and turn my dreams of storytelling into ash.
But stories are not meant to live and die within the confines of a bookshelf. And I am not meant to live and die within the confines of my doubts.
And it is with this realization that I have created My own spark. She might be a little, quiet creature now. But with the right fuel, she will grow into a fierce undeniable force, and so will I.
