My first encounter with writing had to be when I was in 6th grade, I started writing in a diary. I had to cry to my mother who then had to force my older sister, Autumn, to teach me how to write a diary. “Small letters,” She said. I remember writing that first line, too bad I don’t remember what it said. I excitedly asked if I did it right, “Yeah, good.” And with that my sister went to her room. Ready to be rid of me, but I didn’t care because then I knew the secrets of diary writing.
I can’t say I wrote every day, that is still impossible, but I did write often. Eventually, my writing went from cute, young excitement; too dark, emotional hatred of existence. That may seem over exaggerated, but believe me, I was ready for death- just scared of how it would take me. I felt abnormal, it was something that was looked down upon. But was it really? Was I all that crazy? I would battle myself in writing, making valid points to myself on how awful things could be. Before long my writing went from suicidal to filled with love, or the thought of it anyway.
How love engulfed me, and not just love but, sex. Things I had never really experienced, but I was good at writing it. Everyone wanted me to write a story describing them through the eyes of a lover. I would write fan-fictions about my friends and show it to them too! They loved it and begged for more. I was so happy with this, I then enrolled into creative writing in high school.
I learned about poetry, prose, fiction, non-fiction. My heart soaked in pain and lust was nurtured and blossomed by poetry. There is no wrong in poetry, no real rules. This meant to me: I can’t mess it up. I began to get cocky with my writing, wanting to show everyone (except my class). Proudly sharing it with my parents, my dad would always say “Writers only get rich when they die, so what will you do in the meantime?” I didn’t know, I didn’t have an answer and I didn’t need one. My mom jumped in, “John! Stop that!” then she turned to me “If you do something you love, you will never work a day in your life”.
That really stuck with me, I would never work a day in my life? The only catch is I would have to do something I love? Deal! So the journey began. What do I love? All I could think about, dream about was poetry and non-fiction. Fiction to me was solely about sex, it’s all I could do. I couldn’t write a “good” fiction story to save my life!
The years were not kind to me, the more my life went on the more difficult it became. It wasn’t until college that I got on good terms with my mother, and it wasn’t until college that I got Woke.
All of these experiences have pushed me to not only write but create a blog to share with people.