This is how it all started, with a blue notebook and a pencil in the middle of class after falling in love with Harry Potter.
I first started writing when I was in fourth grade. A beat up blue spiral notebook that held my first two characters: Megan and Andrew. You can find them in a more recent book called The Chosen Ones mingled in with my other stories. The characters are dear to my heart, my best friends almost. The story continued into something greater as my old friend got involved. She made up two characters of her own to fight along side my own. Andrew became a thing of the past as a new personality erupted in my imagination. It was Megan and John while hers were Illeana and Erik. We would act out our stories about them at night in her backyard or at the park between our houses. We never called each other by our real names and our parents played along. I was Megan and she was Illeana.
Of course, those were the good times. Now my life revolves around put together plots, big words, and those same characters. Sometimes I can hear them all screaming at me, shouting at me to write their stories correctly with a more insane and unbelievable take. Rarely, they calm down and let me know with soft voices that magic, no matter fake or real, does in fact exist.Somewhere between fourth grade and now, my belief in magic sort of disappeared. However, as my various characters start to come to life again, my heart is beginning to open once more to the possibility of their stories.
It seems unnatural to fall out of the rhythm of being a writer. But as the nights come and go, I am beginning to see that maybe I'm not a writer or an author at all. Maybe I'm just a story teller in way over her head.