writing; is everything.

My parents asked to see what I write today. It was really surprising because my parents are not the type of people to do that. They don’t get into my face or read over my shoulder or anything. They know I’m a good kid, so they let me have my space. I got really upset when my dad asked. I asked him why it was his buisness, and trust me, you just don’t say that to my father.

 He got mad, and explained that everything I do in life is his business and if I plan to hide anything from him, while I don’t need to write anymore. The whole argument was really unnecessary. On my part and on his. I guess I shouldn’t have gotten so upset, but then again, they should just trust me when I say I’m not writing anything bad or weird or anything. I’m just writing.

 Writing is my outlet. It’s simply, my thing. I’ve done for as long as I can remember. I mean, I can remember being like four and five years old and I would illustrate these books and then write what was happening in each scene. I asked my mom once if I could be a writer. She told me if I wanted to, if I really wanted it, I could.

From that point on, writing became my everything. I wrote for fun, I wrote for school, I wrote poems, essays, short stories, novels, everything. I mostly loved to write stories. Novels in a sense but since I was never great at finishing them, basically stories. I loved when I got an idea, and it would stick, and everything I did all day that idea would linger in my mind until I could put it down on paper and slowly the idea would shape into a plot, and then an intense book.

I attempted to put my writing into a contest once. I lost. And I never did it again. Maybe, I’d hoped my writing was great and then when I got the rejection letter I realized it wasn’t. Or maybe I’d always known it wasn’t going to go very far and I’d just hoped. I really don’t know, but after that, I stopped writing. I never thought about it before, but subconciously I lost hope in myself. In the one thing I loved to do, I lost my passion for it.

And now I don’t do half as much as I used to. I look back at things I wrote and I’m critical and upset at how anyone would lie to me and tell me that these things were actually good. That I actually had a chance at making a statement and being unique. But regardless of how much I hate my writing, I still write. I write because its my thing, its been my thing, and I think there will always be a part of me that will want to write.

Back to my main point….I don’t let others read my writing. I had one friend, right before I submitted my story into the contest that I allowed to read my writing, and she told me it was amazing. I felt so proud that someone liked it as much as I did. I thought maybe I did have a chance, but since she was the only person I’d ever shown it to, I was still wary.

To this day that one friend is the only person I’ve shown my writing to. It’s mostly due to the fact that I believe my writing is personal. It’s like an extension of myself on paper, and opening up and letting others read it….well let’s just say the thought makes me uncomfortable, scared in a sense. I’m scared that when my parents read it, they won’t like it, or else they’ll overanalyze it and wonder if the problems in the character’s life are my own. I also don’t like showing people my writing until it’s done.

I’m kind of obsessive about it, I know. But showing people my writing is not something I plan to do anytime soon. I’m a really good teenager, honestly, I am. I don’t drink, smoke, do drugs, have sex. Anything. I’m just plain good. Writing though, is like my ‘troublesome side’. It’s not like I write about anything bad, it’s more the ONE thing that I keep from everyone. It’s like my not-so-dirty little secret. But it is a secret.

It’s my secret. Like teenagers who do drugs without their parents knowledge. That’s what my writing is for me. It’s my drug. Maybe someday I’ll be brave enough to share it with the world, someday it’ll be a more open and honest side of me. But for now, for now its my secret. Everyone may know I do it, but no one gets to see.

 My writing; its my Secret, my Drug, my Everything.

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