Final's week.

  Life has changed a lot for me over the years through a couple moves, loss of friends and family situations. When it all started and I was quite young I fancied myself a bit of a poet and a very avid reader. When I got a little older I guess I was into sports, still quite the reader I abandoned the writing and took drawing. Became a bit of an artist, got good  for my age, hung on to it for a bit. Then, we get closer to where I am now. I picked up writing again, sort of as a mechanism for coping and half a tool for passing the time. But, it didn’t take long for it to manifest itself deep, deep inside my brain. Before long I came to view myself as an author above being even a human. I weave worlds out my mind with words. It’s a pretty good feeling.

  As a child my parents would do these poetry circle type things, where everyone would be “forced” to write a piece of poetry. My father, the bleeding heart he is, always spun beautiful poems of love and travel. My brother not much of a poet or an emotionalist at large tended to opt out, my mothers poetry always calculated and story pressed, then mine, which tended to be reaching into the realm of abstract. Those poetry circles were the first match that struck a fire in my heart. The second being the basic fact that I was born and raised in a library. My mum was a librarian and I went to work with her sometimes and just read, or I visited often. My grandmother took me to them often as well and would read me stories, just as mum and dad would. I kind of latched on to it and became a very young very ferocious reader. I ate books. I devoured them in one bite, they were no match for my thirst of fantasy. The more I read the more imaginative I became and the more disconnected from reality I became, I was only half there. But, half my personality was enough to seem as a functioning charismatic individual. Even from a young age. But, not long after I gained the love for the fantasy worlds created by other great minds things in my family became strained. I started to look more towards books for an escape, a cage to hide in from the real world, and I lost sight of who I was and started drawing, trying to find a door that would lead me to the real world.

  The talk of art may seem to lead away from the goal of this essay. The goal being how I’ve evolved as a writer. Since writing is my life I need all of these experiences on paper to explain that evolution. I reseeded into a shell, I didn’t talk to many people and I had a small group of friends who I played soccer for. I also played soccer for my dad, and drew for him and read to run from him. Things were thin, in the way of relationships or love. Two things that spur all of the greatest writers into the most beautiful of fantasies. This lapse in writing was long. Very long, it stretched into the ninth grade, past moving and past all of the troubles and encounters. I don’t remember much of it, I wasn’t all there. Then a wondrous thing happened, my family started to mend and a teacher helped me find my pen again. Suddenly, the charisma was back, the words, the wit, the smile. I was starting to remember who I was, and I started writing in an old art journal of mine. Things started making sense. Then she came and stole my pen and Identity. For another year I was lost, until I broke out of it. All these experiences built my knowledge and lust for adventure. It gave me the building blocks of a fantasy writer.

  Soon after I was free of the shell and shackles I began to mold myself as a human, nearly ten years late I did it quickly. I gained many friends and opportunities, but things were lacking. I didn’t quite know how to do certain things others did. I missed those learning chances. I missed years and years of practical experience. Soon I came to realize all I had was my experience, personality, and my writing. I began writing and wrote a brilliant novel in under six months. That was the beginning of now. Even with in writing the most significant thing is my story, followed by my vocabulary. My punctuation, spelling, and grammar is rudimentary at best. I’m going back through and slowly reteaching myself and am beginning to get it. Even to this day though, they’re not that important to me, all that is important are my words and where they go. I reviewed all that we went through in this class, and how not a whole lot of it stuck. But, my evolution as a writer followed a very strict path, I started of as a boy, turned into a shell came out a carcass and grew into an author. That’s been my evolution. All I’ve got are my stories. I’m a very smart man, but I’ve missed some things and I’m trying to reteach myself. It’s difficult but I can do it. This is where I am. 

  Now in the future. The furthermost of my evolution lies in the published world. I will take things that I’ve learned from here and my friends who write or who are scholars and continue my learning and keep reworking my craft, until, I become one of the greats, up there with Mark Twain, Phillip Pullman, and Terry Pratchett. Money would be nice, in-fact needed to fuel my lifestyle. But, what’s really important is that my worlds are shared and that my words are read, that everyone gets let into this beauty that I dream and see everyday. The songs and the dances. The scenery, the magic. All that is and ever was, as well as all that isn’t and wasn’t.