No One Sees The World As You Do
“No one sees the world as you do,
Thus,
No one can tell the stories you have to tell” -- Unknown
Ever since I can remember, fantasy has been entangled in my life. From playing house where I was always the mischievous cat, or from in third grade where when me and my best friend had to go to Special Ed Reading and we’d pretend radioactive owls came down from the sky and bit us so that we’d turn into wolves, or when that same friend and I would deck ourselves out in black and white socks on our hands and panty hose on our heads and hop around like mad rabbits. And I suppose this too set me apart from the rest of the crowd, dubbing me “weird”.
When I was nine, I’d started writing a story. It was my story, where I could be free to do as I pleased, rather than follow the strict rules of Reality. Where in this reality, I was weak and small and helpless, in my stories I was as strong as steel. And as I wrote, I embedded my life within the stories. Where I was lonely, the character was lonely too; as I felt love, as I felt betrayal, as I felt pain, I reflected it in the characters of my many stories. And, strangely enough, in turn the characters taught me things; how to love a child, be a cold hearted murderer, how to be so old that you’ve become bored with life itself.
I’d always used books as an escape, and as I developed as a person I became to associate books with happiness and wonder. And as I passed through my years of school, I’d learned that I wanted to make other people happy. Subconsciously I felt a need to make those around me happy, which made me happy. Maybe I thought that writing stories would make other people happy, because other people’s stories made me happy. But whatever the reason for starting to write, I fell in love.
For years I was convinced my story would be written. That my life, my story mattered, and that every single detail of my scattered thoughts were being recorded. Somewhere, somehow. Where my final thoughts, last minute actions before death, and perhaps even after, were recorded forever. Then I read Poison by Chris Wooding. The book read aloud all my Ideas about the illusive book of which held my story. And as I thought hard about it, I realized: I had to write my story. And I did so, through the actions of others, through brave characters with supernatural powers. Through a love that never dies. Through the utter loneliness of being hated by all those around in the small world we thrive within. Through retelling my tales of Azzin and Rina. My soul reflected in The Sorrowful Kitsune who was lonely, and finally found the place she belonged. Just as I’d found my hearts desire to be a writer.
Thus,
No one can tell the stories you have to tell” -- Unknown
Ever since I can remember, fantasy has been entangled in my life. From playing house where I was always the mischievous cat, or from in third grade where when me and my best friend had to go to Special Ed Reading and we’d pretend radioactive owls came down from the sky and bit us so that we’d turn into wolves, or when that same friend and I would deck ourselves out in black and white socks on our hands and panty hose on our heads and hop around like mad rabbits. And I suppose this too set me apart from the rest of the crowd, dubbing me “weird”.
When I was nine, I’d started writing a story. It was my story, where I could be free to do as I pleased, rather than follow the strict rules of Reality. Where in this reality, I was weak and small and helpless, in my stories I was as strong as steel. And as I wrote, I embedded my life within the stories. Where I was lonely, the character was lonely too; as I felt love, as I felt betrayal, as I felt pain, I reflected it in the characters of my many stories. And, strangely enough, in turn the characters taught me things; how to love a child, be a cold hearted murderer, how to be so old that you’ve become bored with life itself.
I’d always used books as an escape, and as I developed as a person I became to associate books with happiness and wonder. And as I passed through my years of school, I’d learned that I wanted to make other people happy. Subconsciously I felt a need to make those around me happy, which made me happy. Maybe I thought that writing stories would make other people happy, because other people’s stories made me happy. But whatever the reason for starting to write, I fell in love.
For years I was convinced my story would be written. That my life, my story mattered, and that every single detail of my scattered thoughts were being recorded. Somewhere, somehow. Where my final thoughts, last minute actions before death, and perhaps even after, were recorded forever. Then I read Poison by Chris Wooding. The book read aloud all my Ideas about the illusive book of which held my story. And as I thought hard about it, I realized: I had to write my story. And I did so, through the actions of others, through brave characters with supernatural powers. Through a love that never dies. Through the utter loneliness of being hated by all those around in the small world we thrive within. Through retelling my tales of Azzin and Rina. My soul reflected in The Sorrowful Kitsune who was lonely, and finally found the place she belonged. Just as I’d found my hearts desire to be a writer.