Story of an Author

Dear Julia,

When you were younger, you asked me why I became an author. I’m not sure you remember this, as you were still so young, but the question took me aback. At the time, I gave you a half-assed answer, enough to satisfy your curiosity but not enough to satisfy mine. It has been years since I’ve seen you for reasons I won’t explain presently, but I wanted to write you this letter to finally and properly answer your question before my time has come. 

For many, thirteen is an age plagued with inner turmoil. Many young teenagers experiment with changing the style of their hair or clothes. For me, instead of expressing myself through fashion, I expressed myself through words. Thirteen was my first time trying to write on my own terms, without the constraints of adhering to school prompts. I’m not going to lie to you, my child, the first words I wrote were not at all pretty. They were quite janky with sentences strung forcefully together by only a thin piece of thread, and the plots had so many gaping holes that it’s a miracle anyone could understand my writing at all. If anyone had read my writing back then, I know they would’ve discouraged me from becoming an author. I had absolutely zero potential. However, no matter how poor my writing was, I didn’t stop. Writing became a much needed outlet of self expression. When I was feeling down, I would write. When I was feeling joyful, I would write. A blank sheet of paper was my canvas, my imagination was my muse. 

When I turned fifteen, my once happy family fell into chaos. I didn’t know why my parents separated at the time, but now I know that was largely due to money. As for the specifics, I will never know. My world was split perfectly in half, half with my mom and half with my dad. My depression worsened. Suicide plagued my every thought until it become unbearable to even leave my room. Even my writing couldn’t find an ounce of happiness, with each plot more depressing than the next. In the end, it was literature that saved me. Opening a new book transported me into a new world that allowed me to temporarily forget about my situation. I read everything I could get my hands on: fantasy, historical fiction, poems, romance, fiction, bibliographies. My writing began to mimic authors of books I had recently read. I didn’t have my own style, but now my imagination had begun to return. Darkness was replaced with unexplored territories, monsters turned into villains worthy of kindness, my mind, which was my worst enemy, became my haven, full of life and untold stories once more. 

A couple years passed. I joined a creative writing club at my school where I learned of websites that allowed you to submit either prose or poetry to enter a writing contest. I had nothing to lose, I reasoned, after all, even if I ultimately never come close to winning, at least I would’ve had the courage to put my writing out there, receiving much needed feedback. Some of the stories I submitted were rather questionable, but after a while, my writing began to improve. I received plenty of feedback, both good and bad, and used it to better my writing. Slowly, my sentences began to make more sense, my words were chosen meticulously instead of haphazardly thrown onto the page. I got compliments for my writing, something I had never thought would be possible.

I even remember when I won my first contest. My senior year of high school, I had written a story inspired by the ultimate demise of humanity due to technological advancements created by humankind itself. I remember the feeling of joy spread through my entire entity when I opened my inbox and saw the email opening with “congratulations!” I don’t think I have ever felt more proud than I did at that moment, when I realized that all my past work had paid off, even when I didn’t think of it as work at the time. Before, I had always played with the idea of becoming a writer, but I dismissed it due to the lack of financial security. Winning, however, inspired me in a way I had never known before, to pursue my passion in the face of the barriers blocking my path. That summer, I began to write more. I was writing for two or three hours almost everyday. I was finding every writing contest that had ever been created to submit my writing to in order to receive feedback. It was exhausting but exhilarating.

I kept winning, contest after contest. I received enough money to fund a decent chunk of my college tuition where I was studying accounting which my parents deemed “a practical career choice.” One day, I had a crazy idea. What if I were to write a book? Now, my dear, there’s plenty of people who throw around the phrase “I want to write a book” without even finishing the first chapter. Writing a book takes two things, a great idea and the patience of a saint. I knew I could come up with many great ideas, many of which could become full-length novels if I let them fester for long enough. However, only time would tell if I would have the meticulous grit and patience it takes to accomplish such a feat. Since you’re plenty old enough, I feel like I can rightfully assume that you’ve looked me up at some point after not being in contact for so many years. If you did, you would’ve seen I’ve written many books, my most popular being Crime of the Ugly Porter. Contrary to popular belief, my favorite book is strangely my first one. Was it my best writing? No, but it allowed me to realize that I could do it. If I had never sat down to write that first book, then none of the others would have followed. That would be my first and only piece of advice for anyone even slightly interested in becoming an author or writing in general. Just start, no time like the present. I am, in no way, shape or form, trying to pressure you into becoming an author. I am solely trying to answer your question as adequately as possible while I’m still able. If you go down a similar path, I know you will be successful. I could see sparkles of talent even at the young age I last saw you. You’ve got a wonderful imagination, one that I’m sure people would pay to explore, even if just for a little bit. I’m sure your words would inspire, at least that’s my motivation. As I got older, my goal was to weave the lessons or wonders I had learned in my youth into stories. So, my dear, to finally answer your question, I became an author because I wanted to inspire others and give people reason to believe that even though everyone experiences personal struggles, there is always a path that leads to the stars.

Yours truly,

Grandma Isabella