Escape into the Night

The first story I ever recall writing was about a girl and a shooting star. It is a vague memory, like a split-second streak of light seen barely out of the corner of an eye. The kind that you're not even sure is a memory or imagination; seemingly divined only after someone you envy claims they just witnessed that illusive genie of the sky...

But whether I recall it or not, it happened, and it's mine. It is dated 09/04 (my second round of kindergarten years) and preserved, seemingly by myself, in an unmarked, red folder on the miscellaneous items shelf, which occupied a certain corner of the basement in my childhood home (rip). The day I discovered it is a moment in time that I definitely won't forget... Having struggled since, well, consciousness, with the concept of choices, I had anxiously decided to study screenwriting in college. Writing seemed to be a constant need despite my ever-changing interests. When I was in middle school, I would write songs and journal, and then in high school, I wrote loads of poetry and even took a stab at writing a novel. Within that specific bracket of timeline when I barely could be certain of my favorite color and each passing day signaled the walls closing in on the entirety of my future, my hyper-fixation on Jared Leto led me to an interest in movies (his movies specifically, but I'd never dare speak that aloud). So studying screenwriting made sense. But having discovered this relic of my innocence, more so EARNESTY, gave me the closest thing to an answer/affirmation/sign of God that I did, in fact, make the “correct” choice. I guess I had been passionate about writing for longer than I could even remember (or could I?).

To summarize an already very short story, a reserved, young brunette stares at the stars before bed, just adoring them. And then she goes to sleep. Suddenly, a loud BANG jolts her from dreams. Looking out the window, she sees a shooting star! Crazy! Naturally, she opens the window, hops on, and goes for a ride. It is magical and peaceful and freeing until... she wakes up. BUT, she doesn't wake up in her bed! Instead, she is on the floor... Curious.

From what I "remember," the girl was based on me. Clearly, I still like to write about myself. This story really just evokes the essence of me. I had a love for passing the time in my bed (and I won't act like that "contrasts with present-day me" in any way). I'd spend rainy evenings filling up my sticker book by nightlight and fall asleep to stories from Chicken Noodle Soup for the Kid's Soul. I also adored the sky. (Don't be mistaken, I am actively cringing at the "main character" energy oozing from that sentence, but it's true!) I'd stargaze from the roof, press my face flush to the glass anytime winds would exceed 40 mph (to my mother's frustration, a rare moment of rebellion in my youth), and always wanted more. And then, of course, I loved the nighttime. It was when I felt my best; my most connected to this "me" I was (am) trying to figure out (and I won’t act like I’m currently writing this in any of the acceptable waking hours either). At night, there would be no one around for the people pleaser in me to consider. I think, specifically the sky at night had this hold over me, it brought me to another world. In retrospect, I'm a little frightened at the young age I developed this escapist mindset at. So whether I knew it or not (I can't remember), the theme of this story is escapism. My perspective on escapism came from a cumulated experience of what I loved; a subconscious yearning for an extraordinary peace. And so that's where this story came from. That, and a dash of the need to impress, receive praise. (Eldest daughters, you all know what I mean). Notice how I leave it open-ended. Impressing people with the way I could think motivated me like nothing else.

As an adult, escapism can be used as an umbrella term encompassing every vice I indulge in. Escapism is a product of the mind and the mind fascinates me, and obviously inspires my writing, considering my love of psychological thrillers (which you definitely won't find here on Vocal). But more so nowadays, I try to figure myself out instead of escape myself. What truly, real or imagined, is motivating me here? And I'm also not necessarily writing with the goal of a "complex" ending to impress people with. I got older and developed more perspectives, as one does. Empathy as they say. It's actually quite the opposite of escapism now. Being somewhat lost as a kid, I yearn for people to relate. I want to bring people together, to delve into reality. I want them to feel less alone. And of course, I’ve gotta incorporate humor at the expense of myself in works where I am writing like a self-centered “main character” (see? I did it just there). The theme of my writing now is more so something like, "You don’t need to journey across the galaxy on a shooting star to have an impact on people, sometimes you just need to find an old short story you wrote."