When I was a mere five years old, I loved to read and write. Picture books and pages filled with stories of kingdoms, Prince Charming's, and teddy bears that came alive at night.
When I got to the first grade, and I was finally considered to be "a big girl", I wrote a plethora of stories. Stories that always ended happily ever after, stories where "please" was always described as "pretty" and it always came with sugar on top.
When I reached fourth grade, I was still writing. More realistic stories now, but my mother was still proud, my stories finding a home on the fridge door.
When I made it to sixth grade, all the books were assigned, and my mother never read my writing because she "didn't have the time".
When I started grade eight, my teacher pulled me aside and told me to stop writing all of this fiction, and handed me an essay guide.
Believe it or not, that was nearly six months ago.
I didn't bring my essays home, I didn't show my mom. I mean, I still kept writing, but it felt like I couldn't make errors because all my hard work would soon be sinking in a sea of red ink.
School's supposed to teach you, but I think it taught me wrong, because I'm hiding behind metaphors and considering my imagination to be gone.
YOU ARE READING
Excerpts From Stories I'll Never Write
FanfictionIt works like an ideas book. Just quick ideas for stories I'll probably never make full length stories. ❤
