I was three years old when I first learned to read. For the first time, seemingly random letters came together to form words. I was suddenly aware of the world around me in its full complexity.

This newfound understanding of words completely changed my life. As I became better acquainted with the English language, I learned to appreciate not only the words scattered around my small bubble of the world but also words on a page that crafted another world entirely.

I fell in love with stories.

My love for these fictional works of art blossomed into a strong desire to create my own. I would parade around my house, a book in hand, telling my stories to anybody who cared to listen. The words on the page were far less fascinating than the words I was creating. They were childish and didn’t make much sense, but they were my own, and I was immensely proud of them.

As I got older and learned to write, I found myself typing out my stories. I would sit in front of our family computer, spilling my thoughts onto a blank page. The worlds I crafted in my mind became reality on the screen in front of me.

But there was always an underlying feeling of desperate frustration. As much as I loved to write, there were times when the words in my head refused to appear on the page. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t fully express myself to the desired extent. As a young child though, I didn’t let this stop me. I had boundless creativity, and I used it to push past any difficulties that came my way.  

My knowledge and understanding of the world grew over the years, as did my passion for writing. I continued to read large chapter books that inspired my own stories, and I became adept at expressing my thoughts on the page. I would start story after story, with a million ideas for each one. However, they were all neglected at some point, whether it was accidental or purposeful. The problem was that I almost had too much creativity. I could never focus on one story long enough before I had another new idea demanding my attention.

And another problem was presented: writing for school. Of course, there were times when I enjoyed it, but more often than not, I found myself dreading the idea of writing non-fiction. The stream of essays and research papers started slow but quickly became endless and overwhelming. I had less and less time to write things I actually wanted to write.

The desperate frustration that began as nothing more than a minuscule annoyance grew to be a bigger problem. My perfectionistic tendencies rendered me unable to write a single sentence without picking it apart and having to completely rewrite it. I could no longer write stories without questioning my every decision. My story-writing came to a standstill.

I can say without a doubt that I have never lost my passion for writing, but it has certainly dwindled significantly. However, recently that passion has been rekindled, and I have been presented with many opportunities to write about subjects I care about. The sheer amount of writing I do weekly, while incredibly stressful at times, has resulted in an all-time high in my love for the activity.

I still don’t write fiction though.

Every time I think about it, I’m hit with a wave of anxiety. But I can’t keep myself from yearning to write fiction. It doesn’t make any sense. If writing fiction is such a draining process, why would I want to do it?

It’s because I’ve created other worlds in my head. From the day I learned to read, I discovered that words could build entire worlds. I was in awe of their power, and I refused to ignore it. I created entire kingdoms, entire towns, entire galaxies. When my head hits the pillow at night, I am transported into those worlds I created.

And they continue to grow.

I am so often lost in thought, dreaming up not only worlds but the people in them and the journeys they’re on. I can make them anything I want them to be, and that is a power I will never take for granted. It seems so pointless to me to let those worlds, those people, and those adventures, stay in my head. How can anything or anybody really grow if they stay in one place for their entire existence?

I love to write, and I plan to continue doing it as long as I live. But I don’t want to write non-fiction for the rest of my life.

I don’t want to let a fear of frustration and failure keep me from doing what I really want to do. Why shouldn’t I give my stories a chance? Why should I let my stories die with me? I haven’t truly changed from my three-year-old self who wanted to share her stories with anybody and everybody. I want to share my stories with the entire world. But if they could make it to just one person, I think that would be enough.

I want to write fiction again.