|Favorite book:||Ender's Game|
|Member Since:||Jul 19, 2012|
I remember in second grade, I was given the assignment to make up a story about a fish. I couldn't repeat the beginnings of my sentences. That was all my teacher told me. My fish was purple, saved his owner from being eaten by Spongebob, and was friends with the cat. Ever since then, I've vented my creativity not only by writing, but also through sculpting and design.
My mother was the type to make up her own bedtime stories. We would create the silliest stories, but I think that out-of-the-box thinking from an early age really amplified my thirst to write.
Nowadays, I'm constantly tring to the write to only stroy that's been in my head for years. Unfortunately, it's the beginning that kills my passion to write it. I always end up trashing concept after concept. The middle is there in my head, but I cannot put a single word down without thinking its the beginning.
School has forced me to write stories and ideas I would normally steer clear off. Holocaust is not something I think that would be fun to write about, but inspiration struck me while reading Night by Elie Wiesel. My short story is heavily based on the dialogue between Elie and his father upon fisrt arriving at Auschwitz. But even then, I still had to bring a sense of fiction to the story.
Fiction intrigues me in ways nonfiction could never hope to achieve. I can imagine my own worlds, where dates do not matter and I alone can make up the rules. I do not like checking my facts or basing my stories in reality. Reality is boring. I want an escape to dreamland.
I may have rambled in no cohorent sense or fashion, but thst is how I write. No gameplan, but verbal spewage (sorry for the mental image). There is a high probability no one will ever read this, but I couldn't resist writing in all this glorious empty space.