To My First Reader

May 20,2050 

It’s been some time since I’ve sat with you. I apologize. Life has gotten a hold of me and all of a sudden our relationship has become secondary. Still, no excuses for the absence, as it is you that I have to thank for these lovely distractions. 

Remembering when I first met you seems so long ago. The first time my mother handed you to me reminds me why and how I am here now. I was only 6 then and she told me— “Here, this is your journal. This is a place for you to write what you are thinking, feeling and whatever else you desire.” I was so confused. I asked her what I was supposed to do with all this bounded paper and what I do when I mess it up. She simply smiled and said to me “This is good practice. For your future.” And just like that it was as if my future was predicted in her words. 

So I sat in the corner of the room I shared with my sister, staring at your pages. They intimidated me. Sitting on the floor, I begged you to give me an idea of what to write and how to start. I hesitated, wanting what I wrote to be right and perfectly neat, but the pages stared blankly back at me, begging me to fill them- to try, to do anything with them. So I tried— I did what I could at the time and wrote what I had hoped was correct on those pages. I mustered up the strength and courage to write four sentences that were grammatically correct and in my best penmanship. That’s all I had to give— and that’s the first time we met. 

We weren’t the closest in the beginning. I never understood fully what you and I were capable of. So I overthought it. I tried to keep a routine. Every day I would come up with new things to chronicle on your pages, sometimes I would even write about other people’s lives just to fill the empty gaps. These were not the most thought provoking or interesting pages to read from my life; I would tell you what I had done that day and sometimes exaggerate enough to make you and myself feel that it was worthy of those empty lines. Back then I had something to prove to both of us, and that was this: I’m not that boring and I can keep a routine. But with all things, the luster of the new and undiscovered with you, faded away and I moved on to new projects without you. 

Later on, at the age of 10, being propelled by what was probably reading too many books from The American Girl series as well as just finishing Uncle Tom’s Cabin (yes, at the tender age of 10) I focused my attention on the impossible challenge of writing a book about slavery. Yes, she was going to write a book on a topic she only had learned about in 2 books. I had proclaimed that I would complete this by the end of the school year and that I would need no one’s assistance in meeting my deadline. We both remember how this ended. I never finished it. I was too hard set on the idea of doing this with no practice, no idea of how to continue a story without a beginning, and without any serious historical references besides Addy Walker. 

It continued this way for awhile. I would only remember you when I had nothing else to do. And you would come back but I would leave you as quickly as you came. I was self absorbed in what was happening to me and around me that I forgot to look to you for solutions. You had become my last priority, completely forgotten at the bottom of my desk. I would have to hit my version of rock bottom back then to understand what we had. 

When adolescence hit and the hormones took over I remember falling in love and just as quickly my heart was broken. With no one else in my life that understood what I was feeling at that time, I looked to you for absolution and you met me full stop with open pages ready to soak in the ink and the tears. That was the moment I realized you were always going to be with me. 

So I would visit with you more often, try to share with you when the moment granted it and when I needed you the most. You were the first one there when my mother was diagnosed and you didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to say anything. You let me scream, shout, and break apart on your pages. I went to you everyday back then. Then life calmed and I started to find comfort in you for more than just the heartaches. You became my voice for when things went right and when I didn’t know which way it would go. You were the place I would go to, to bounce ideas, to write and rewrite— to edit and to re-edit my edit. You kept my mind moving and my ideas guarded in your pages. You and I were there together for every single moment from that point on. 

You were my preacher with every failed relationship, career change and health scare. You were there for me for my first failure as a writer, first success as an author and the beginning of the journey my mother had already spoken into existence. It’s been decades since we’ve had this free flowing conversation. The most important conversations I have are the ones that I have with you. And the moment I knew I would become a writer you had known too. You have always been there for me with blank pages begging to be filled with perfection and disaster. You never judged how it all came out, and because of that I was able to become a writer who is above all appreciated by you- my first reader.