It Was Never About The Mountain

"I live to create."

When I was little, my mother always told me this saying. She cooked, cleaned, and took care of us. I always gave her a puzzled look.

"But you don't draw?"

At the time, I thought to create meant having to be artistic. Sing, dance, paint, sculpt. Those were what I thought meant to develop.

She would sigh, then smile, then tells me to play.

During a school book fair, I remember one year at age eleven standing in front of picture books. I picked one up, the smell of peppermint strong since our librarian used to wear peppermint-scented perfume. I smile at the pretty pictures with minimum words. It was for second graders, but I didn't care; words are words after all.

"I want to create something like this," I told the librarian while purchasing it, my eyes full of awe and wonder.

She smiled and laugh. "If you work hard for it, then you will."

I took her advice and began drawing every day. They were all crooked and sloppy, but at the time, they were my most prized drawings. Later in life, they still are.

In my first month in middle school, I got a reality check. I was standing in front of a bookshelf full and ready to be read.

None had pictures.

I don't remember what the title was, but I picked up this one book that changed my way of thinking. This book was fictional. It was required by my class and seeing how it was about a haunted house and being a moody pre-teen, I took it home and began to read.

Words are words, after all—nothing more, nothing less.

The smell of a worn-out book was something I never knew I would ever feel attached to, but I did, and now I understand why.

I remember clearly for the first time in my life I conjured up a boy I never met. He had ginger hair with freckles across the brink of his nose. He smelled like the earth after it rained, he had a thick southern accent, and always had grass stains on his worn-down blue jeans.

I fell in love with words. 

It took three days, but when I finished that book, I knew that something had changed in me, within the next few weeks. I checked out more books then I had the past years combined. I drifted from haunted house stories to action books. I love it, and by the end of the year, there wasn't one book that I hadn't read from those two genres.

As with most pre-teens, I wanted to fall in love. 

I took my sister's advice at the time and read a famous love story. Within two days, I remember thinking.

'Isn't this too soon?'

The romance was too forward in my opinion.

 The main couple played around too much, sending wrong signals to the other. They had trust issues and commitment issues as well. In the end, I was even more scared to fall in love.

That was the first book I never finished.

I asked the librarian what book she would recommend. She smiled, and in a few seconds, I held an old and worn out book.

"Don't follow every book you read, remember, those are just advice and what you do is done by your own two hands."

I opened the book and learned. 

I found this couple more reliable. Instead of the previous main couple who were strangers, this couple held a strong friendship before getting together. They had faith in each other and took on the world as one. I loved it and began to change my view of love.

I dreamed of a deep friendship that blooms into love.

At this time, I was still drawing but realized that I wanted to create more than just drawings. So during my eighth-grade winter break. I sat down and began to write in my notebook.

It was filled with nothing but words and paragraphs that went for miles. Still, I was so proud of myself. I had to show someone. I showed my mother, and she smiled. Feeling confident by my mother's approval, I showed it to my English teacher that following week.

"What's this? I can't even read it!"

With a frown on his face and my notebook on his hands, he turned and began to correct it. I know now that he was just trying to help. But at the moment, my heart shatters.

He returned my notebook, lines, and comments covered the majority of my little short story, but it didn't matter.

I dropped that notebook in the trash and didn't look back.

I was turning sixteen soon. I still read books and even drew pictures that were now looking more natural. During that time, I found out the wonders of a reading website. It was the first time I realized that the world was more connected then I previously thought.

The thought of 'I'm not the only one!' swirled in my head as I read more unpublished books and some fanfictions.

I read more that year and continued going forward.

As a teenager at this time, I started to weigh my options. 

I loved to draw, but I was still shy to show off. The writing wasn't something I wish to dabble around. So I turn and focused on what I love.

I loved food and singing.

At sixteen, I took choir classes and fell in love. I loved hearing my voice echo and be joined by others to create a beautiful harmony. I found how loudly I could genuinely sing, how far my voice could reach was breathtaking.

While I sang, I turned to my mother and learned how to make my favorite dish. 

I sucked.

I remember my face burning red, my mother's hysterical laughter as she threw away a sorry excuse of scrambled eggs into the trashcan.

Now I can cook more exotic dishes, but it didn't happen over time. No cooking was all about time, something at that age I hadn't grasp.

I cooked for my family during those few years and sang at every concert my school hosted. Yet, I never enter a talent show. Why? Not because I was scared but sings was nothing more than a part of me.

In the end, I still wanted to create.

During college, I accidentally left a three-hour gap in between classes. Nothing wrong with that, but most of my homework was finished in one hour, and lunch took even less.

With textbooks as heavy as bricks, I turned to the library and tried to study. It was in one of those days that I found myself without a table to use. Every study table was packed full of students, nothing available for the next few hours.

I remember sighing to myself, my back aching from the pressure when I remember that they had a computer room upstairs. With a twist and a skip, I went up those stairs and sat down to read.

The sound of the keyboard clicking grew dull as I adjusted to noise. I remember turning to my side, nothing more than to glance, and what I saw stopped me.

"Let her go!"

I know it was rude to stare, but I couldn't stop. I watched this girl next to me, create a scene using nothing but words!

I stayed there reading and absorbing myself into her world that when she stopped, I found myself shocked.

I looked at her now, realizing why hse had stopped in the first place. I felt shame well in the back of my throat, avoiding her gaze. Finally, she speaks.

"Do you like it?"

Words cannot describe how much emotions went through me at that moment.

"I love what you created!"

I remember her bashful smile when I spoke, and from there, things started to change once more. 

I'm sad to say that she and I never grew a friendship I thrive to having, but she gave me a push to try writing once more.

So with a lump in my throat, I made a fanfiction: no harm and no expectations for me. I turned in my first story chapter and reaped the benefits later in life.

The amount of love and thoughtful criticism helped me bloom in a way I never knew possible. 

From an eleven-year-old who read less than a hundred words. To a twenty-two-year-old who reads per day ten to twenty thousand words, and writes about four thousand words every day.

I still draw to this day and had reached out towards different styles. I bring, paint, and even do it digitally. I'm still not perfect, but there is nothing wrong with that. Once you reach perfection, life becomes dull! 

I now cook and make my recipes for my mother to try. For once, she begs me to cook whenever I'm over!

I sing my nephew to sleep, my voice soft as silk and echoes in the nursery room, bringing him sweet dreams and comfort. 

I'm working every day to get better. So in a way, I'm still going through a transformation.

I wish to share more than that, but I want to focus on my significant changes.

Finally, I understand what my mother said all those years ago.

"I live to create."