Yeah, didn't happen. But that was my "reality" at times.
And yet, at fourteen sitting behind a makeshift desk with my large orange Reed typewriter that vibrated and hummed louder than my old air conditioning unit, I was drawn back to the real. Every story I wrote, started with a real part of me. My family. My raw emotions bleeding on the page, before I managed to break away from it and venture into a fantasy world.
I realized I was always telling my story. Whether hunted by evil magicians for my innate ability to rule the world, or walking on stage garbed in my graduation robe, accepting my diploma while my dad was at work. It was who I was on the page.
I think most of you great, awesome people reading this can probably relate to a piece of this story. It's where the reality meets the imagination. It's putting ourselves out there, transparent, raw, for all to see. Writing is sharing a piece of yourself with the world. Whether the world is a niece, a son, a husband, it doesn't matter.
And while my work is out there for agents to read, to judge, to try to figure out if its marketable, at the end of the day I remember that the ninjas are waiting and the world needs me to save it.