There is always something magical about striving toward a dream. I think it’s the amount of passion one puts into proving the world wrong. You nurture a talent, work on it secretly, and then put yourself out there. Of course, you’re always subjected to criticism. Who isn’t? Some are going to hate and bash you down. And some are going to love it and praise you and tell the others to just shut up.
I remember sitting at my desk reading when I was tiny. My parents bought me this really cool desk that was fantastic for art projects. It had a revolving turntable for crayons and pencils and the desk had two built in lights: one for the desk light, and the other for the built in tracing table. I had a copy of Disney’s Snow White in book form, and sometimes I would trace the pictures and write something else there. It was a dream to be an illustrator and writer, or animator.
And then one day, I sat down and made up my own little story based on Loony Tunes characters. My first words were written when I was eight. At that age, I had gobbled up books about the solar system and made my way through a few of The American Girls books. I think I was just starting on The Baby-Sitters Club. The story was never finished and I have no idea where I was going with it. I had entitled it, “The New Kid On The Block” and the main characters were going to be Tweety and Sylvester with Bugs Bunny. I’ll share the first paragraph as is:
When Tweety came home, the first thing she said was “Mom, why are the suitcases out”? And Mrs. Tweet said “Because daddy told me to tell you to pack up.” “But why, mom,”? Tweety asked. “I don’t know.” Dad just told me to.” Mrs. Tweet said. “Ask your father when he comes home,” she said. Well, Todd came home at three o’ clock P.m., Terry stayed home to do the house work, and Tweety went to kindergarten and walked back home herself. She came home at eleven o’ clock.
I must admit: I’m very proud of my eight-year-old self for spelling kindergarten right and not spelling it kindergarden as most people around that age are prone to do. The grammar is terrible and I’m a little confused as to why my younger self talked about when everyone came home and why didn’t the mother know what was going on either? But those were my first written words as far as I can remember. I did write little shorts throughout my life; most were never finished, and the others have vanished through the years. I’m just so glad that I kept my first story that I ever wrote, even if it is unfinished.
Afterwards, I would try my hand at fanfiction once again. But I’d rather not share any of the terrible out of characterness and bad flow any of those had. However, the later fanfiction was a stepping stone to teaching me how to finish a story and keeping characters in character.
Looking back, it’s interesting to see how far I’ve come. What was your childhood dream? Is it the same as it is now?