LITTLE THINGS ARE BIG
A Wizard of Words
I’ve always been known as the “creative” child in my family, always coming up with stories and characters and sometimes even whole universes in my head. My dad and older sister were science brains, my mom was a math whiz and an expert at childcare, and my little brother was absorbed with both the world of history and farming antics; none of them really understood the chaos of my world. In fifth grade, one of my best friends, Emily, and I created a fictional comic book-style world where we were an unstoppable crime fighting duo at night and rivaling realtors by day. Our heroes fought a myriad of villains, each with their own quirks and motives and catch phrases. Fifth grade was also the first time I started putting some of those stories in words on paper. Key word: started. It was like a the world’s most misleading fireworks show that begins all flash and bang but then rather than a grand finale that pulls the whole thing together, it just fizzles out in to nothingness. The words that came forth so naturally would come to a sudden and screeching halt leaving the rest of the page blank, and when faced with this obstacle, I would just walk away. The magic was gone, and therefor so was I.
In eighth grade, Mrs. Foresman introduced our English class to a project we had been anticipating ever since we started at West Middle School: first grade buddy books. The buddy books had been a tradition at my middle school for years. We would be writing, editing, printing, and illustrating a book for a first grader. Fortunately for me, I knew a first-grader at one of the coordinating elementary schools. On the day we went to meet our buddies, I could tell Avery was excited to have me as her buddy. She introduced me to her best friend in her class, who happened to be paired with my best friend at the time.
Going into this project, I felt confident; I loved to write, I had a creative mind, and I had the advantage of knowing my buddy. The only thing that had me worried was my subpar art skills. That was a misguided notion. I got a strong start to Avery's story with the premise of a birthday party where she and her friends watched her favorite movie, High School Musical, then the group stumbled upon a mysterious birthday scavenger hunt. I was having a lot of fun coming up with riddles for the characters to solve and using the answers to move the plot to new locations. My story was really rolling. Panic started to set in when I realized that I was running out of ideas and still had pages to fill. But then I ran headlong into a big blaring brick wall: the words stopped coming and the magic was dying out. Avery’s story had no end in sight. There was no string of words that would tie up all the loose ends and wrap up the story in a pretty little bow.
Not knowing where to go, I froze, sinking deeper and deeper into the quicksand of self-doubt. The urge to walk away grew stronger. I looked around at all my classmates who seemed to be having no problems writing stories that sent their first-grade buddies in to fantastical worlds of pirates and fairies and celebrities and adventures. My story was lame. I couldn't help but imagine Avery being envious of her classmates and their books. But the gradebook told me walking away was not an option. Even if this wasn’t a graded assignment, what kind of buddy would I be to Avery if I gave her an unfinished story?
I forced myself to fight my way out of the sand. In a moment of inspiration, a magic talking bird flew down to me from somewhere up in the chaos of my mind and pulled me (and the plot of my story) out the of the thick of it and a golden lab puppy dragged me over the finish line. I found my words again, even if they were a little messy and nonsensical. For the first time in my young writing career, I had finished one of my stories. The third act had gone a little off the rails, but the mere existence of that third act was a victory for me.
The second to last week of school contained the day of truth. Our buddies were coming to our school for the afternoon for a one-on-one book reading party. Avery's face was alight with joy as I read her story, her big blue eyes taking in every detail of the illustrations I had created. Despite my initial concern about my drawing skills, the hardest part of illustrating ended up being trying to capture Avery's platinum blonde hair. Once I had read through her whole story, she turned back to her favorite page. It was the page where I was lost for what to draw, so I just wrote out the word 'poof' in large letters surrounded by curlicues and swirls, all doused in glitter. The part of my story that I thought was the weakest ended up being the most valuable to Avery.
The hand written thank-you card Avery made me still hangs on my Wall of Stuff in my room. When I look at the crayon-colored rainbow and uneven colorful letters, I think back to the process of making that book. Follow through still continues to be a struggle for me. I hate to think of just how many stories I have started typing up, but haven’t dare touched the file in months. Sometimes, I am in eighth grade all over again; the overwhelming sense of failure and loneliness, worthless without my magical words. I'd like to think I've grown since then, that I have gained confidence and self-worth, yet there’s those untouched files, taunting me. I am held back by that fear of losing my magic. I must remind myself of the lesson eighth grade taught me: rather than just walking away when the magic fizzles out, I have to keep pushing, keep searching until I find my words again.
In eighth grade, Mrs. Foresman introduced our English class to a project we had been anticipating ever since we started at West Middle School: first grade buddy books. The buddy books had been a tradition at my middle school for years. We would be writing, editing, printing, and illustrating a book for a first grader. Fortunately for me, I knew a first-grader at one of the coordinating elementary schools. On the day we went to meet our buddies, I could tell Avery was excited to have me as her buddy. She introduced me to her best friend in her class, who happened to be paired with my best friend at the time.
Going into this project, I felt confident; I loved to write, I had a creative mind, and I had the advantage of knowing my buddy. The only thing that had me worried was my subpar art skills. That was a misguided notion. I got a strong start to Avery's story with the premise of a birthday party where she and her friends watched her favorite movie, High School Musical, then the group stumbled upon a mysterious birthday scavenger hunt. I was having a lot of fun coming up with riddles for the characters to solve and using the answers to move the plot to new locations. My story was really rolling. Panic started to set in when I realized that I was running out of ideas and still had pages to fill. But then I ran headlong into a big blaring brick wall: the words stopped coming and the magic was dying out. Avery’s story had no end in sight. There was no string of words that would tie up all the loose ends and wrap up the story in a pretty little bow.
Not knowing where to go, I froze, sinking deeper and deeper into the quicksand of self-doubt. The urge to walk away grew stronger. I looked around at all my classmates who seemed to be having no problems writing stories that sent their first-grade buddies in to fantastical worlds of pirates and fairies and celebrities and adventures. My story was lame. I couldn't help but imagine Avery being envious of her classmates and their books. But the gradebook told me walking away was not an option. Even if this wasn’t a graded assignment, what kind of buddy would I be to Avery if I gave her an unfinished story?
I forced myself to fight my way out of the sand. In a moment of inspiration, a magic talking bird flew down to me from somewhere up in the chaos of my mind and pulled me (and the plot of my story) out the of the thick of it and a golden lab puppy dragged me over the finish line. I found my words again, even if they were a little messy and nonsensical. For the first time in my young writing career, I had finished one of my stories. The third act had gone a little off the rails, but the mere existence of that third act was a victory for me.
The second to last week of school contained the day of truth. Our buddies were coming to our school for the afternoon for a one-on-one book reading party. Avery's face was alight with joy as I read her story, her big blue eyes taking in every detail of the illustrations I had created. Despite my initial concern about my drawing skills, the hardest part of illustrating ended up being trying to capture Avery's platinum blonde hair. Once I had read through her whole story, she turned back to her favorite page. It was the page where I was lost for what to draw, so I just wrote out the word 'poof' in large letters surrounded by curlicues and swirls, all doused in glitter. The part of my story that I thought was the weakest ended up being the most valuable to Avery.
The hand written thank-you card Avery made me still hangs on my Wall of Stuff in my room. When I look at the crayon-colored rainbow and uneven colorful letters, I think back to the process of making that book. Follow through still continues to be a struggle for me. I hate to think of just how many stories I have started typing up, but haven’t dare touched the file in months. Sometimes, I am in eighth grade all over again; the overwhelming sense of failure and loneliness, worthless without my magical words. I'd like to think I've grown since then, that I have gained confidence and self-worth, yet there’s those untouched files, taunting me. I am held back by that fear of losing my magic. I must remind myself of the lesson eighth grade taught me: rather than just walking away when the magic fizzles out, I have to keep pushing, keep searching until I find my words again.
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Here is an early draft of this assignment before it underwent serious revisions. The revisions I made gave more detail, focus, and purpose to the piece.
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