I only write in blue ink. ~Kat Graham
Writing is such a personal joy when you are young and are dreaming of what might be. You might even be able to believe that yes, this, whatever dream you are keeping a tight grasp on, will be.
That’s sort of where I was through my early teens after I had outgrown the mystery I was trying to write starring a preteen me. I left my fictional me, Jo, and my sister and cousin sidekicks trapped in a cave. Things were pretty dire and I suppose have gotten much more dire after so many years of leaving my characters down in that cave. I sometimes say I gave up on the story because I didn’t know how to write my way out of that cave, but I think the truth is more like I just said. I outgrew the fun of writing that novel and entered my teen years where I still kept filling up notebooks with story words.
I started journal writing when I was thirteen and spilled out my thoughts in it all through my high school days. Some of those thoughts turned into stories that I wrote in various notebooks. A writer can get so attached to certain ways to write. In those young days, I wrote with a fountain pen. I filled it up from glass bottles of blue black ink. I needed that particular color for my creative juices to properly flow, or so I thought.
While I had not been particularly shy about talking with my family about writing the mystery, that changed as I went into teen years. I became a “closet” writer, both figuratively and literally since there was a closet in my bedroom where I did sometimes hide with my little desk lamp and secretly write my stories. I don’t remember ever “confessing” to a single person at school and especially not any teachers that I wanted to be a writer. It seemed too big a dream for a little country girl like me. I had never met a writer. Had no idea of even how to actually get a “start” in writing. I simply knew I had the overwhelming desire to write one word after another to tell a story.
I did love every writing assignment in school since that gave me more chances to put words together. Term papers might have made my fellow classmates groan. I secretly cheered. A chance to write pages and pages of words. I did one on dogs – what else. And one of Shakespeare, I think, even though I had never read the first Shakespeare play. That was me. Sure, at that time, that I could write anything. Anything, I guess, except getting Jo and her sidekicks out of that cave. I do think that first book is the only book where I never found those last words “the end.” Plenty of times I found the end on stories that never found readers, but that’s a story for a little farther down my writing road.
In those teen years I hid my writing dreams from almost everyone or thought I did anyway although I’m sure my mother knew I was still dreaming about writing. After all, she did see me buying all those bottles of blue black ink and I did ask for a real fountain pen for Christmas one year and a desk of my own another year.
Whether I talked about wanting to be a writer or not, those years were a great time of writing preparation. First, I was getting writing cramps from stringing words together as I tried to tell stories from beginning to end. I never offered to let anyone read those stories and I still haven’t although they are hidden away in a drawer somewhere. I’m sure I’d cringe if I read them myself. I’d be ready to start a bonfire.
Just as good as the writing practice I was doing was the reading I did during those years. I started reading the classics in our school library. Impressed the librarian and my English teachers which made me feel good about my reading choices. I had a book going all the time and that helped not only plant words in my mind but I subconsciously was absorbing how the masters put words together to share stories that lived on after they had written their last words. I also read other books. Loved Gone with the Wind that I read when I was fourteen on a long Thanksgiving weekend. I read anything and everything I could find. A library was a favorite place.
All of that, the writing, the reading, the gift of libraries, was just what this wannabe writer needed during those teen years. But before those teen years were over, I fell in love, married and became a teen mother. Tune in next time to see if that hindered my writing dreams and my journey down my writing path.
Did you keep a journal when you were a teen? What book do you remember especially loving when you were a young reader?
I read Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier although I don’t remember much about the story now. I do remember how I felt while reading it. I should read it again. I did read Dr. Zhivago long ago too and now have it in my TBR pile. Maybe someday I’ll get it reread.