Snipping Stories

I have a confession to make. At seven years old, I became a thief.

I’m not proud of my criminal past. However, establishing a “three books per week” rule felt like cruel and unusual punishment. Therefore, I stole from my elementary school library. Like any good thief, I had an accomplice: the librarian. She always looked away when I sneaked a couple extra items in my Mickey Mouse backpack. She never mentioned when, instead of returning the allotted three books every Friday, I returned five or six. From second to fifth grade, this was my routine. On Mondays before class started, I’d rush to the library, and patiently wait for my accomplice to unlock the door. Once she did, I zoomed in, silently perusing through the shelves. My tiny sticky fingers snatched whatever looked interesting. I’d check out my allotted three books, stuff a couple extra in my backpack, and head to class.

The clock would mock me as we made it through geography, history, social studies, and finally - lunch. This was my time to shine. While my classmates ran off to play sports, jump rope, or find the ice cream truck, I hid. I took my little blue lunch box, my books, and sat in the corner of the cafeteria. While munching on my peanut butter sandwich, my eyes would devour page after page of adventures. I’d fly to the second star on the right with Peter Pan. I’d shiver in fear of the monsters in Goosebumps books. I’d find the stories of Frog and Toad as comforting as my grandma’s fresh-off-the-tree mangoes. If you walked by, you’d see me sitting alone in the furthest nook of the room, reading and snacking. You’d think I was a loner, and you’d be right.

I didn’t have many friends growing up. Partly, because I moved around a lot. My parents always searched for the best place to build a home, but that place would change every few years. It made it hard to stay in touch with the family back where I was born, the Dominican Republic. It also made it difficult to make new friends. Schools seem to have this weird unspoken rule: don’t befriend the new kid. Unfortunately, I was always the new kid. The other reason for my lack of friends is because I was a “weird” new kid. I spent all my free time with my nose in a book. My shyness, awkwardness, and general lack of social skills isolated me. At least, they isolated me from the real world, but that didn’t matter so much at the time. The real world never felt like home anyways.

My home was in the grand halls of Hogwarts. In my daydreams, I’d rush to Potions instead of Math, though both made no sense to me. I walked with my fellow Hufflepuffs, proudly sporting the colors of the House of the Loyal. I found home in a squat gray cabin at Camp Half-Blood. In my imagination, I shared it with Percy Jackson - the brother I always wanted. We’d go on quests together, bicker with annoying Olympians, and save the mortals from a godly war. I lived in a world of black ink and silver screens.

Fictional worlds became my home because the real one felt too scary. With Percy Jackson, Hermione Granger, Diana Prince, Kara Zor-El, and so many others - I felt safe and welcomed. Percy understood and valued my sassiness. Hermione showed me being smart was a superpower, not a shameful quirk. Diana showed me women could be fierce, brave, and powerful. Kara taught me the most powerful weapon of all isn’t laser vision or super-strength, but hope. Hope that we can all be better. These characters were my friends when I didn’t have any, their home was my home, and their stories inspired me to write more.

I wanted to write stories where everyone could find a home.

Now I find happiness in writing stories for the kids who are like me: a little dorky, a little shy, and with imaginations big enough to fit entire worlds. I want them to see themselves, whoever they are, as the hero. I want them to know “weird” is what people call those brave enough to show their unique, authentic selves. I want them to find comfort in these stories. No matter what they look like, what they believe, who they love, or who they want to be.

However, sometimes when I sit down to write these stories, that’s all I have: a want. I stare at a blank page and grumble under my breath. Despite how hard I squint at my computer, muttering silent prayers and the occasional curse - my mind stays completely empty. Some days all it takes is a short walk to start an idea. Others - it gets messier.

In one of my high school English classes I learned a brainstorming technique I call Snipping Stories. I’d find old books and magazines, and I would cut out words or images I liked. There was no rhyme or reason, no method, and no planning. It was random, chaotic, and terrible for my crippling Type-A demeanor. However, it worked. I’d take out my blue scissors and I’d snip from that story, and this picture, and that article. I’d have a pile of beautiful chaos. With my eyes closed, I shuffled around my pile of inspiration, and grabbed five pieces. It would go something like this:

Word: Fashionable

Image: Castle

Image: Car

Word: Dog

Word: Protect

And so the story of a well-dressed werewolf princess and a cruel king would ensue. Admittedly, some stories are more about practice than showstopping prose. Regardless of the outcome though, there’s something inspiring about weaving stories from random words. The words, the pieces, are all different. However, I find the stories they make are always stitched together by the same core truths. These core truths are found in every story, things like love, loss, hope, and grief. They are things that connect us as humans.

Despite these core truths weaved into the fabric of a tale - some of our stories remain in the shadows. Our pieces are a little too different, our details a little too “outside comfortable standards” for our stories to be told.

Maybe a piece is where we’re from, who we love, what we look like, or who we pray to. We are a collection of unique pieces, our fundamental truths stitched with shared humanity. Yet our stories aren’t shared fairly, if at all.

We’re not the heroes. We’re the villains.

We’re not the chosen. We're the expandable.

We don’t get the happy ending.

Years of reading stories, watching movies and shows, and escaping to fictional worlds taught me this. It’s a realization that could have broken me, but only strengthened my resolve to continue writing. I don’t have superpowers like my Kyptonian friends. I don’t have magic like Hermione, and I don’t have godly powers like Percy. I do, however, have a pair of scissors, a computer, and a life-long love for stories.

I have a dream to tell stories that encourage, empower, and inspire.

I have a hope that, someday, we will get to be:

The heroes.

The chosen.

The happy ending.