Hiatus

It seems as though the words commit themselves to this page without my intention or effort. That is good, as it means that what I suspected is, indeed, true. Ever since the third grade, I have a had a gift, being endowed with the ability to shape my thoughts effortlessly, seemingly with subconcious effort. Forethought, critical examination... I didn't require any of it. I could seemlessly weave stories of great beauty, quality and elegance without making a second draft.

But, all things come at a cost. This great gift, of course, was balanced by my complete ineptitude in anything that required work of a more numerical design. I struggled with numbers and mathematics on a seemingly impossible level. Some of my friends in elementary school were dyslexic, but I christened myself "dysnumeric", which is not really a word. But, it is a testament to my ability to craft words which make perfect sense, and yet which are not used, and do not exist. The long and short of it is, I was gifted in one area, and almost entirely disabled in another.

I would spend hours upon hours writing stories in the computers of my classroom in third grade. My teacher knew that I had a skill, and he wanted me to try to hone it. Of course, this was at the expense of all other skills one needs to learn in third grade. I immediately realized the infinite possibilities that were present when one is gifted in language, writing and reading. I had the whole world ahead of me, and was yet creating new worlds to explore in my head.

All of my creative spirit, and the energy to write these otherwordly stories, seemed to dry up once I neared completion of middle school. But, it had been under assault since long before then, since I left elementary school even. In fact, as the current date of September 13th, 2020, this is the first time since those days that I have strung as many words together cohesively, purely for my own pleasure, out of a creative urge. That may sound almost impossible to the reader, as writing takes a lot of development for most, and a lot of practice and upkeep, but I can honestly claim that this is the case.

Dormant for so long, I now am writing this story about my beginnings as a writer, and my 15 year hiatus. It seems a fitting place to start. What I said earlier, in the initial opening sentences, about my suspicions being confirmed, refers to me always suspecting that this gift of mine was rather like the skill riding a bicycle: I would never truly lose it, nor notice any degrade in skill over time.

As for reading, which predates my writings, I began reading in kindergarten, and reading chapter books before first grade. I read every single Harry Potter book within twenty-four hours, and if anyone remembers those behemoths, they were as thick as encyclopedias. I read a lot of classic novels, and re-read them, you know the ones. Lord of the Flies. The Grapes of Wrath. I would read any book you put in front of me, it was that much a problem, I couldn't be trusted with them at school, because I wouldn't be listening to the teacher if I had one in my hands.

Soon I began trying to write my own books. I would write about ancient egyptian mummies, flying to outer space, landing on distant planets and exploring the jungle via robots. Nothing was out of my reach. But over the next few years, my inner light that kindled my yearning for writing stories seemed to grow dim. And I felt distinctly less inspired, I would often stop writing in the middle of sentences and simply be unable to continue on, and it was more than just writer's block. Something almost turned off inside me, I went from an optimistic, positive thinker to a more cynical, isolated mind. My power to create gone, I was left with only destructive urges.

It was only when I began this draft that I remembered what I used to be like: full of optimism, hope for the future, a love of life. Believing that I could do anything I set my mind to, and that I would be great one day, and make my parents proud of me. It sounds so black and white, so corny even, but that was me. I am a bit older now, and that youthful naïveté is gone, but I have been revisiting it lately, because what has taken its place is just cynical, cruel, unforgiving apathy. I became jaded to the world. Perhaps it is good to believe in something, in yourself, in a world that you can effect. I think writing has saved me, in a strange way. Perhaps I should pay it more mind. I am harkened back to what advice my mentor gave me on a rainy day in the middle of dreary December: "You must never let your creative spark die, or you may die with it." Having lived through this dying of the light, I must rekindle this yearning of mine, an overdue return from a long hiatus. The time has come, and I am glad for it...