I handed my notebook to her with my hands shaking and butterflies in my stomach. It was the very first work in progress that I had ever created and giving it over was nerve wracking. I had the nerve to do so then. I had the nerve to think that I had what it took to create a story and run with it; make something of it. Maybe even make something of myself. I wanted nothing more in life.
Being an author was a huge dream of mine. It was a dream
that took up all of my thoughts, every day. I have spent my life reading. For
as long as I can remember, I have loved to curl up in the tiny bay window in
the living room with a good book. It wasn’t long before I was reading books way
above the ones suggested for my age range. I was reading books that some adults
would have found hard to read; but I couldn’t get enough of them. I filled my
time with fantasy worlds made up by other authors.
I watched her face as she skimmed through my handwritten
novella. Her face spoke volumes well before her mouth ever did. I had watched
her face because I was nervous, and as her face scrunched, I knew she did not
approve. She wasn’t going to have a single good thing to say about any of it. I
could see in her face as she read though my words that she didn’t have a care
in the world for all the time I had taken to write down every word by hand. I
could see that she wasn’t going to acknowledge anything from my work because she
didn’t approve of any of it.
After reading several pages, she closed my notebook and
thrust it back into my hands. The look on her face spoke volumes again as she
said, “I don’t even know why you wrote this. Don’t quit your day job.” I didn’t
have a job, teenagers in The Common weren’t allowed to work until after they
finished high school. I tried to hide the tears that were welling up in my
eyes. I blinked rapidly, trying to force them away but they betrayed me. As a
tear slid down my cheek, I wiped at it furiously, but she saw. “Don’t be such a
crybaby,” she said as she spun on her heel and walked out of the room.
I couldn’t get away from the little shack that I shared with her fast enough. My legs couldn’t carry me away from the pain that was burning through my heart. I ran as fast as I could, making it halfway across the small, scraggly bit of front yard before I heard the screen door slam shut. I didn’t wipe my tears anymore. My cheeks were streaked with them as I ran, the wind was cool on my face. I ran straight for the forest; straight for my haven.
When I reached the edge of the forest, I didn’t bother to slow down. I knew the trail better than I knew any other bit of land around here. The forest has been my escape for as long as I can remember. As I weave through the trees, my feet remember where to go. They carry me further and deeper into the forest until the trees are growing so close together that I can’t run at full speed anymore. As I slow, my breathing gets ragged and I can hear the blood pumping in my ears. I stop and lean up against the closest tree trunk, trying to catch my breath. As I inhale deeply, I can smell the warm and wet earth all around me. The smell calms me as it fills not only my lungs but my soul. I lift my head and stare at the canopy above. It seems to envelope me; protecting me from everything outside of this forest. My haven surrounds me like a cocoon and I feel safe. Nothing can hurt me here.
I wander slowly further into the forest. Everything here is
green, fresh and welcoming. The old leaves crinkle under my feet with each
step. I weave in between trees, making my way further towards the big opening
that I know is ahead of me. I can hear the tiny little creatures scurrying
around along the forest floor. Being here makes me smile.
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