The First Story I Ever Wrote

I wasn’t looking for inspiration. I was looking for batteries.

It was a lazy Sunday afternoon when I decided to finally organize the cluttered drawers of the old study table at my parents’ house. Somewhere between expired glue sticks, half-used stickers, and broken crayons, I found it — a tattered, spiral-bound notebook with “MY BOOK” scribbled in uneven, purple glitter pen.

My stomach flipped.

I knew instantly what it was.

The first story I ever wrote.

I hesitated. Part of me wanted to toss it back into the drawer, bury it under the dust of time and embarrassment. Another part of me — the one who has since grown into a full-time writer — was too curious to resist. I sat down, brushing off crumbs of ancient erasers, and opened the cover.

The first page read:

“The Mistrious Advinture of Super Girl and Her Cat, Thunder.”

(Misspelled words, bold underlines, and multiple exclamation marks included.)

I cringed. Then I smiled.

The story began with a dramatic sentence:

“Super Girl woke up at 6am because a dragon had stolen her breakfast.”

Ah yes, the classic villain: a breakfast-snatching dragon.

From there, the story spiraled into chaos. Super Girl, who apparently wore a sparkly cape and had “laser eyebrows,” raced across cities, flew to the moon, and interrogated squirrels for clues. Thunder the cat, her sidekick, could talk (obviously) and had the power to shoot spaghetti out of his tail.

My adult brain winced at every sentence.

But I couldn’t stop reading.

There were hand-drawn illustrations in the margins — stick figures in capes, floating toast, crying dragons. In one chapter, Super Girl held a "Feelings Meeting" with the villain. The dragon tearfully admitted he just wanted someone to share breakfast with. She forgave him and gave him a bagel.

The ending?

They all opened a breakfast café on Mars.

Ridiculous. Silly. Heartwarming. Brilliant.

I laughed so hard I nearly dropped the notebook.

But then something surprising happened.

I started to feel something deeper. A strange kind of pride. This chaotic little story, written in crayon by my 8-year-old self, had something I sometimes struggle to find in my current writing — complete and fearless imagination.

No limits. No fear of being judged. Just joy.

As a professional writer now, I spend hours editing, doubting, second-guessing every word. I think about SEO, readability, sentence flow. I worry about whether readers will like it, whether editors will approve, whether it fits the platform’s tone. Somewhere along the way, that wild spark of storytelling — the kind that shoots spaghetti from a cat’s tail — got muted.

But this notebook reminded me of why I started in the first place.

Because writing felt like magic.

Because stories could be anything I wanted them to be.

Because even if it made no sense to anyone else, it made me feel something.

I ran my fingers over the faded ink, tracing the crooked letters. I remembered sitting at that same desk years ago, chewing on a pencil, lost in a world I made up on my own. I remembered stapling the pages together and asking my mom to “publish it” — which, in our house, meant photocopying it and making everyone read it after dinner.

I remembered the thrill of sharing a story.

And I realized: That thrill is still there. Buried sometimes, yes. But alive.

So I did something I never thought I would.

I typed the story up — typos and all — and sent it to a few close writer friends.

The responses?

Laughter. Gifs of spaghetti. Messages like “You were born for this.”

It reminded me that storytelling isn’t always about being perfect. Sometimes, it’s about being honest. About letting your imagination be messy, weird, vulnerable. About creating without worrying who’s watching.

That little notebook didn’t just hold a story. It held me — the original version. The kid who loved breakfast, dragons, and happy endings.

That evening, I placed the notebook on my bookshelf next to my published works. Not as a joke, but as a tribute. To remind myself that every polished piece I write now began with a spark of chaotic heart.

And sometimes, when I feel blocked or burned out, I take it down, read a page or two, and smile.

Super Girl still saves the world. Thunder still shoots spaghetti.

And somewhere in that dust-covered chaos, I still find my reason to write.