First Draft

I was never like other kids when it came to learning to read or write. While other kids were dealing with picture books, ABC flashcards, bedtime stories, or Dr. Seuss. I took a different path. My journey to reading and writing started in a dining room, with a loving mother who was determined to teach her kid how to read, and it continued with the young kid’s imagination and how it translated onto paper.

My mom, with her constant need to nurture my curiosity, had a clever way of testing my reading skills. You see, at the young age of five, I didn’t quite like the idea of sitting down with a book and reading, I was what some might call a “lazy reader.” But of course, as a child filled with creativity, I came up with a little walkaround, a plan that would let my imagination run free, and change the way I saw literature forever. 

As my mom ran around the kitchen, tending to pot and pans, I would sit at the dining table, pretending to read aloud the book she had picked out for me at the library.  However, instead of opening a book, I opened the door to my imagination. I began to create stories, not on paper but through spoken word. I narrated these tales aloud, which kept my mom clueless about what was going on. Now I must confess, it was a bit of a sneaky move on my part, however, it felt like a brilliant idea at the time. Or not so brilliant, as I came to find out years later my mom knew what I was doing the whole time. 

My mom patiently played along. She would nod and smile as I created my stories. Sometimes, she’d even stop me with questions or make comments about the “book”, sort of like a teacher does to make sure a student understands a topic. Those moments, when I was inventing stories on the spot, were the most enjoyable times of my early childhood, but little did I know that my “storytelling” sessions served a purpose other than being a clever workaround to my mother’s reading tasks.

As I continued my journey of learning to read and write, another special memory stood out, one that had a similar impact on my creativity. You see, as a child, I took an interest in creating poems and books, but there was a slight problem. I was great at starting them, but I rarely managed to reach the end.

In my room, I had a collection of stories and poems, each with their own piece of my imagination, and each left incomplete. Yet, despite the numerous unfinished tales in my collection, there was one that took me further than any other.

It all began with an idea that popped into my head out of nowhere. I created a story about five friends who received mysterious letters in the mail. The letter stated they had one day to hide before they were tracked down by a serial killer. this attempt at writing a book had my young self-filled with excitement.

I remember the day I sat down at my desk with a notebook and pencil, ready to write this story. Chapter One flowed onto the page effortlessly. I introduced the five friends, each with their own personalities, I even set the tone as they received the letters. As the days went by, I continued writing, excited to see my own story unfold. But, as always, I never managed to progress beyond that initial chapter. 

In the end, my journey into the world of reading and writing was a unique path. From those early days of telling stories to my mom while she cooked dinner to the chapter of an unfinished book about five friends facing a serial killer, each experience left a permanent mark on my young and creative spirit.

I realized that it wasn’t the number of books I read or the number of stories I finished, it was the, imagination, and curiosity I used, that defined my love for English.