I have had a momentous past. I have been a mighty lion, pacing the savannah with my lithe strides. I have been a sailor, the hair whipping my face in the invigorating zephyr. I have engaged in a wizard’s duel, fought mighty warriors, and unearthed glorious sights, all while lying curled up in a snug armchair near a roaring fire.
Some may say that I am simply jesting. Others may think this is not humanly possible. But I know that the secret to my remarkable travels lies within a written or printed work of fiction or nonfiction, usually on a multitude of pages bound together within covers. In other words, a book.
Ever since I was a mere child, reading has drawn me into a world of magic. It has comforted me through my times of unbearable boredom, as well as times of excitement and change. No matter how fast the world is flitting past me, I can always be assured that my favorite novels are around me, as eternal and unchanging as ever.
But even though the books remain constant, people change, and with them go their tastes and interests. Now, at the age of thirteen, my battered but loved copy of The Wind in the Willows has been safely tucked into a quiet nook of shelves, to rest for the remainder of its days in quiet solitude, until one who can appreciate its lighthearted banter comes upon it once again. My preferences have shifted from simple tales of friendship to dynamic battles that determine the fate of the universe to complex plots of betrayal, murder, and challenge.
No matter how my reading material may change, my creative energy and fervor for words have remained ever constant, and have managed to worm their way into a subject similar to, but yet remains the opposite of, reading.
A passion for books, without exception, leads to a desire to write. Seeing the smoothly connected sentences in your mind flowing effortlessly on to a blank sheet of pure whiteness is a joy that cannot be fully appreciated unless you experience it for yourself. From crafting modern mythology to poems to a full-fledged fantasy novel, I have encountered this joy in many forms.
At this point in my life, I am only beginning to understand the intricately woven complexities that are the soul and spirit of the written work. Each stroke of my own shining black ink reflects the sense of wonder and anticipation I have every time I crack open a fresh story and see the words “Chapter One” in bold lettering across the top, feeling the lifetimes of experiences dancing at my fingertips.