The Dark

Markee learned how to control the dark and how to let the darkness speak for her.

She listened to those that feared monsters, but Markee had grown up seeing them. They were her friends, or so she thought. The monsters were as real to her as the blanket her mother covered her in or the bottle of apple juice she sipped on.

Some monsters had long red tongues that hung out of their faces like a dog. Other were like twigs with skin stretched taunt over the frame. Long limbs, short limbs. Smooth, furred, feathered skin. Floating faces, red eyes, sharp teeth. That’s how one described Markee’s circus of particular monsters. Some would call them scary or nightmares. But they weren’t monsters. They were her friends.

And they accepted her. She was close enough to being like them that they saw her and she saw them. But she was still different from them. She had a trickle of light in her that could beat down the darkness inside of her. 

Feebe, her mother was normal. Normal enough. She still cringed at the sight of school bathrooms. She’d never forget the slippery feel of the floor after the baby had slid out. Feebe hated monsters. She never truly believed in them. If there was heaven, hell never existed. If she let herself believe in the darkness for a moment, she was doomed and her thoughts would race and Markee would be left alone. 

Markee woke up in her room with a start. 

One of her friends hissed over and over in her ear. Wake up. Wake up. It’s time.
She didn’t ask about time for what, but grabbed her blanket just incase it would be long. She sucked on her thumb, padding softly through the lightless apartment.  The apartment wasn’t large, but the hall and rooms seemed to grow and warp when the sun went down. The shadows of her friends grew and slinked as they moved together to her Mom’s bedroom.

The door was cracked open, revealing the white moon casting a light over Feebe’s bundled form. A low snore came out of her mouth.

Feathers fluttered near Feebe’s ear. Let it go. Change. Be like us. It’ll be fun.
Changing confused Markee. She liked her skin, even though the buzzing had increased inside, like water beginning to boil.

Markee shook her head, but the long, shining teethed grins of her friends made the head shaking meaningless. 

Give in, and dance.
Markee released her thumb and dropped her blanket to the ground before peering into her mother’s room. Her friends flew around her in a faster frenzy and Markee could smell blood and death. A sick feeling dripped into her, like an upset stomach. She scratched at her skin, wanting to be rid of it. 

Soon she would. 

The monster within her awoken and fluttered, and grew. 

Her body arched back, back breaking back before she was tossed forward on the floor with a thump. 

Her lungs couldn’t get enough breath and it felt like something was trying to climb out of her. 

Don’t fight, it’ll be okay.
“How?” Markee cried.
She let it crawl out of the part of her that she hid away.
The monsters let out a sharp breath before grinning at Markee. She was one of them.

New Beginnings

Hey, everyone! :) I hope the new year has gone well for you. Sorry for the delay in posting. School gets in the way of everything~  But I'm here now. Despite my busy life, I've actually been writing more than I anticipated. And even if I'm not writing, I'm crafting new ideas for my story. So, here's a project I'm quite proud of. I finally finished the prologue for my story~ Please let me know what you guys think! P.S see more on Wattpad! Follow me at: @Allister86 

Queen of Light, Prologue

Bear's Claw Bazaar was as bustling and busy as ever. Its cobblestone streets were flooded with shoppers, traders, and merchants. Children's laughter rang through the air as they chased one another, their mothers scolding them from their stands. The smell of baked bread and pastry filled the air, tempting patrons to their tents. It was perfect.

At least little Roselyn thought so. Her seven-year-old eyes were filled with awe and wonder as she and her mother, her "Mimi," entered the market. Mimi had described what it looked to her many times after she returned home from shopping. But this was the first time her sapphire eyes had seen it firsthand. It was even more extravagant than she could ever imagine. Never had she seen so many people in one place. Mimi was overprotective, rarely letting the girl play in the backyard unsupervised. Now she was out in the real world, with real people; much different from the ones she read about in books.

It was a crisp autumn day. The two were hidden under the hoods of their traveling cloaks, the heavy cotton shielding them from the whipping winds. Roselyn's was an amethyst hue with gold and silver trim while Mimi's was a mint green with a silver leaf pattern.

"Stay close, Roselyn," Mimi instructed, holding the girl's hand. "Don't wander off."

"I won't," she promised, squeezing back.

Together they entered the belly of the beast. Many people greeted Mimi as they passed, paying little attention to the girl on her arm. As they walked, Roselyn could barely see past the wave of people. She was disappointed. Being so short, she couldn't see any of the tents. Nobody but Mimi seemed to know she existed. Even on her tippy toes, the girl could barely see past people's shoulders. She wondered if it really was more fun to be an adult.

"Minami!"

The two made their way out of the crowd toward a nearby stand. An older woman, around the age of fifty, with curly blonde hair and almond brown eyes in a light blue traveling cloak waved to them, signaling them over.

"Minami!" she called again. "Over here!"

"Jeanene," her friend replied, letting go of Roselyn's hand to hug her. "How are you, dear?"

"Oh, I'm fine," the woman pulled back to look Mimi in the eyes. "I saw you and just had to say hi." Her eyes wandered to Roselyn. Jeanene pulled away from Mimi to examine the girl. "And who is this."

Mimi smiled. "This is the little one I was telling you about."

Roselyn shied away behind Mimi as the woman's face leaned in closer to hers. Mimi laughed, patting her head. "Rosie's a little shy."

"It's natural to be shy in a busy place like this," Jeanene commented. "But," she continued. "The reason I called you over is because I need some more herbs. I've tried growing my own, but the soil around my place is crummy. Nothing grows. I need some ingredients to make it more fertile. I know you're not open until Friday, but since you're here today I thought I'd ask."

"Of course," her friend replied, beaming. "I have plenty of ingredients in stock. I'll stop by the stand really quick."

The three made their way along the path carved out by the tents on opposite sides of the street. Mimi's was the second to last on the side closest to the homes and stores with brick walls. Jeanene stood on the customer side while Roselyn and her mother made their way under the curtains to grab the supplies.

"Stay here," Mimi instructed as she grabbed supplies from behind the tapestry. "I'll only be a minute or two. Then we'll get our own supplies and head home. Alright?"

Roselyn nodded. The girl didn't want her mother to leave her behind in the dark, only specs of light filtering from the fabric roof. She knew Mimi ran a stand in the market, but didn't expect they'd be going to it that very day. She felt vulnerable without her guardian with her. Roselyn didn't get out much. She was scared of what might happen in Mimi's absence.

Fifteen minutes passed, yet Roselyn was still waiting. She pulled a small section of the tapestry back just enough so one of her eyes could see out. Mimi was still managing the stand, but a whole line of people crowded around, wishing to purchase her goods. Roselyn's heart sank. At this rate, they'd never get home. The market wasn't as fun as she thought it was going to be. Adults ran everything. There was nothing for a child like her there.

Except that there were children like her there. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see a group of them further down the street, almost in the main part of the town the bazaar attached to. They laughed and shrieked as they chased one another, forgetting all about the parents that brought them. A ray of hope shined down on her soul. If only she could go play with them too. Then Mimi could do her business and she wouldn't be stuck in the dark.

But you can, her mind whispered. Mimi can see you from her stand. She'll know you're safe.

Her heart was torn. She'd hate to disobey her mother, but she desperately wanted to explore the world, to have fun.

It'll be fine if it's only a moment, right?

Roselyn made sure Mimi wasn't looking when she ducked under the fabric and crawled to the other side. She came out from the small strip between Mimi's tent and her neighbor's. The crowd of people by her stand was much too vast for her mother to notice her. She took off down the street, toward the group of children in the town.

There were no girls in sight, only boys with tattered rags and dirt on their faces, their feet shoeless. At first, they didn't notice her. They took her as another tourist to their town. But as she lingered, they began to grow curious.

"You just gonna stand 'ere an' watch?" one of them sneered.

"We some kina sho' to ya?" another interjected.

"N-no," Roselyn defended herself. "I-I was just watching."

"Well scram," the tallest one ordered. "We're busy here."

"W-wait." All eyes were on her now. Her heart slammed against her ribcage. Thump, Thump, Thump. "I-I...I want to join you."

Some boys expressed disgusted looks while others laughed.

"We don want nothin' ta do with no girls," the tallest, and most likely the eldest, responded, shooing her away.

"Please," she begged. "Give me a chance. The adults are so boring. You all looked like you were having so much fun."

The rest of the group opened their mouths to protest, but the boy held up his hand to silence them. "Fine. We'll give ya one chance, but only one."

Roselyn beamed from beneath her hood. "T-thank you." Her heartbeat eased a little. At least they were willing to give her a chance; not everyone has evil in their soul.

The group led her down the streets of the town, further from the market. A twinge of guilt resonated in Roselyn's soul. She could barely see Mimi's tent anymore. If she didn't return soon her mother would worry. But they boys already agreed to give her a chance. She couldn't back down now. What would they think? They'd probably call her a coward, strengthening their stereotypes that she was a weak little girl. The heroines she had read about were daring and brave; she drew her strength from them, the ones she looked up to and aspired to be.

"Here," the eldest said as they reached an alleyway. "You an' me'll race." He stretched his arms behind his head. "If ya beat me, you can play with us."

Roselyn's nerves tingled. She'd never been in a race before. By the looks of the boys, they'd been running around the town and market most of their lives. She was at a terrible disadvantage. Of course, they chose such a challenge on purpose; they had no intent of letting her join them. So instead, they tease the poor girl with visions of false hope. But she wasn't going to give in so easily. She knew she'd lose, still, she had to try her best. Mimi always told her that as long as she tried in life she'd get somewhere. So maybe, just maybe, if the group saw the determination and fire she had in her heart they'd let her join their game regardless if she lost.

Roselyn took her place next to the boy at the entrance of the alley. She was a nervous wreck, but she was ready. From the corner of her eye, she saw him look at her and sneer. "You don't stand a chance girl."

"Ready!" one of the other boys shouted from behind. "You gotta touch the wall n'back. No cheatin'."

"Get on with it already, Ross."

"R-right," the boy cleared his throat. "Three...two...one...GO!"

The two took off down the narrow path, both determined to beat the other. Roselyn's legs seemed to move their own. It was as if she'd ran like this all her life. She was a few paces behind her opponent, touching the wall moments after him.

Come on! You can do this! Push yourself!

She felt like she was at her limit already. Her lungs were on fire, her legs ached. She feared she was going to lose after all.

You can do it! Show these boys up!

With all her strength, Roselyn pushed herself further. Suddenly she was neck and neck with him. Their feet moved in sync. His face was in shock as he turned his head to find her right next to him. "What the..."

In the last few seconds, Roselyn pulled ahead, touching the line before her opponent. She stopped abruptly, desperately wanting to catch her breath. Her legs felt heavy as the fresh oxygen burned her lungs. Shock and horror painted the boys' faces. They all looked at her as if she was a snake with three heads. Some took a step back from her. Her eyes stared back at the boy she'd race. He stood less than a foot away from the finish line, mouth unhinged.

"G-good...race...huh?" she asked between breaths.

Still, nobody said a word. Silence and wide eyes filled the air. A knot began to form in Roselyn's stomach. She didn't know what was wrong. They didn't look at her this peculiarly before. What happened?

"I knew it." The eldest finally spoke up. He crossed his arms and glared at her. "There's no way a normal little girl could have beaten me, you albino witch."

"W-what..."

Roselyn's heart stopped. What was he talking about? She peered behind her to discover that her hood had fallen. Her snowy white hair was now exposed for all to see. The group snickered and laughed, calling her a witch. Roselyn didn't understand what they were talking about. She was a normal person, like them. How was she to know that she was different? Being sheltered all her life, she believed she was like everyone else. Mimi had never said anything about her look being strange, so Roselyn saw no problem with them. Not until now.

Tears welled in her eyes as the boys teased her. Undesirable, ugly, unwanted, they called her, mocking and ridiculing her. "Stop it!" she cried. "Be quiet."

"Oh yeah." The leader grinned as he stepped toward her. "And you'll curse us if we don't, ain't that right?"

"I said STOP!"

An invisible wave rippled through the group of boys. All of them fell to ground moaning and groaning. Others were starting to stare now. Passersbys gave her shocked, dirty, and curious looks as they passed by. Roselyn's face was redder than a tomato. She grabbed her hood and threw it over her head once again.

"You'll pay," Ross muttered. "We ain't gonna let a witch get the best of us."

"Roselyn?"

The girl turned to see her mother standing from afar with a group of concerned adults. A few of them rushed over to their sons, giving her dirty looks as they reassured their children they'd be ok. Roselyn could barely speak. She'd spent too much time away from the tent. Mimi probably saw everything and thought of her as vile as the rest did.

Mimi rushed over to her, kneeling to hug her daughter. "I was so worried," she whispered. "I came to check on you and I couldn't find you anywhere."

"I'm sorry, Mimi." Tears streamed down the girl's cheeks, staining the fabric of Mimi's cloak.

The crowd began to whisper behind them. Immediately Mimi pulled away, her eyes scanning the group that formed around them. "We have to go."

Before Roselyn could respond, her mother picked her up and rushed past the wall of people. She was in a rush to get out of the market, not wanting to be seen. Roselyn peered back to see the disapproving looks on all their faces. To them, white hair was abnormal, an alien trait. Roselyn had never felt so low in her life. She thought it was perfectly normal to look the way she did. But she was wrong. One look at her and the rumors begin to spread. She could hear the terrible things they whispered. Roselyn wanted to disappear from the world.

Mimi didn't even stand up for her. She wanted to leave as fast as possible. Was her mother embarrassed of her looks? Is that why she made her put her hood on before they left the house? Roselyn didn't know. But she did know that she probably wouldn't be returning to the market for a long time. 

Fire

Fire

Twisting, shimmering

glowing

Ethereal, eternal

but abrupt

Life giving, nourishing

but destructive

Protective and illuminating

but dangerous all the same

I am the element of contradiction

Why We Write

Why do we write? Sometimes I ask myself why. Like, why do I perform an art form where most of the results will never be seen by anyone but me? Why? Why not just read or find something more seemingly deserving of my time.
Because I have to.
I go through periods where the words won't come, where the worlds I create fall flat or my vision of a character fails to happen.
But I continue onward.
We write for the same reason the basketball player who has never gotten a basket continues to shoot the ball. We write the same way the swimmer practices their strokes day after day after day. We write the same way a singer sings the same note over and over again in a succession of melodies hoping to hit the right one.
Writing is a lifestyle that one does as often as they need. It's a need to put down words and a need to get the thoughts and questions we have out of our head.
Some need to write like they're running a marathon, others write like they're running out of time, or the last group writes so infrequently that you forget they partake in the hobby.
Every writer has a different view of it. But we all fall under the same umbrella. We're writers.

The Queen of Light, Coronation Day

An excerpt from an original short story based on my current work in progress. Enjoy~ - Alyssa

“Roselyn.” Knock knock. “It’s time to get up, my lady.”

I groan as I pull the covers further over my head, burying my face deeper in the fabric. Maybe if I pretend to be asleep he’ll go away. Unfortunately for me, Maion is persistent. His stacked shoes mimic a horse’s as he clops across my room. Just let me sleep old man. He pries my hands off the covers and tugs them toward him, throwing them over his shoulder. His famous smile is painted on his narrow face. As usual his white hair is slicked back with far too much gel. A spotless white suite is his attire of choice. Baby blue eyes peer down at me with annoyance.

“Rise and shine,” he orders, his voice drier and plainer than a saltine cracker.

I moan and roll onto my stomach to avoid his rays of judgement.  

“I don’t wanna…” I grumble. I’m definitely not a morning person. It’s a daily battle getting me up and ready in a timely fashion. I’m grouchier than a bear and more stubborn than a mule. Frankly, it would be easier to negotiate with a brick wall. And it might even care more than I do.

“You must.” His tone is stern. “If this were any other day I’d let you sleep until noon.”

I have to keep myself from snorting. That’s a lie and you know it, Maion.

“But,” he continues. “You know today is an important day.”

Damn, it’s here already? I didn’t realize how fast it had come. I almost forgot about it. My insides twist as my heart slams against my ribcage. I sit up so fast I almost fall face first onto the floor.

Maion continues to stand over me.  His smile is replaced with a thin pink line. “Be downstairs for breakfast in ten minutes. Don’t bother getting dressed. Iofel will be up with your dress to help you get ready.” He’s pleased enough with his efforts. Quickly he turns and exits, not even bothering to close the door behind him.

I sigh. He’s such a pain. I go over to the vanity and begin to brush my tangled while curls. You heard right: white. Don’t ask why. All angels have white hair, that I know of. So, no, Maion’s not elderly, he’s an angel, like me. He’s technically my butler, though he likes the title “assistant” better. Maion’s my right hand man. He practically raised me all on his own since my parents are no longer around. He’s one of the most intelligent people I know, the same one who taught my mother when she was my age. The maids tell me he used to be a lot more carefree and kind back then. But her death hit him hard; even harder than it hit me. His heart turned to stone. He’s been trying to make me just like her. He has a special place in my heart and to my family. I wish he wasn’t so uptight all the time, though. Makes him so much harder to love and appreciate.

Of course, I’m an angel too. But not just any angel; I’m the Queen of Angels, or more commonly known as the Queen of Light. Well, technically I’m not Queen yet. Today is my eighteenth birthday, as well as the day of my coronation. The Kingdom of Light, where I, along with all the other angels, live, hasn’t had a King or Queen since I was born. Maion told me once about how my parents went off to do some field work in the mortal world. They were going to help spread peace to human towns. Sadly, a band of demons brutally murdered them, leaving me as their only heir. I was barely a year old when it happened. That’s why I’m not allowed to leave the castle. Maion doesn’t want to risk losing the last member of the Lux-Aeterna royal family, humanity’s “eternal light.”

But it’s so boring here day in and day out. It’s the same routine: fight with to get up, eat breakfast, classes with Maion, which include how to act like a lady and be a proper ruler. In between we have a snack or two before eating dinner and praying before bed. To any of you out there who want to be a princess or Queen or royalty or whatever: it isn’t as easy as it seems. I’ve trained my whole life for this one day, the day where I’ll have to step up and rule and entire kingdom.  Becoming a Queen at age eighteen will increase my responsibilities a thousand fold. I can feel it now. I wish I only had to worry about which boys liked me and if my makeup was on point.

I can’t believe Maion only gave me ten minutes to get ready. He knows it takes me at least twenty to brush my hair alone. It’s gotten so long it touches the back of my thighs. My bangs, on the other hand, constantly hide my eyes, making me look more childish. I don’t even look an adult much less fee like one; and I’m light years away from a Queen. My face is round with baby cheeks. My sapphire eyes still have an innocent shimmer to them that suggest I never left the house. I have no defined curves or feminine qualities at all. I don’t look at all how royalty should. It doesn’t help that Maion reminds me of how “un-queenly” my appearance is.

Sigh. Just yesterday I was an innocent princess, but overnight I was supposed to blossom into a knowledgeable Queen. That’s all I ever hear. “Study hard now so you can be a great ruler later.” “No, you can’t leave the castle. It’s dangerous.” “Think of what your parents would do before you act.” How the hell am I supposed to know what my parents would do? Sure, Maion has shown me pictures of them, telling me how great rulers they were, especially my mother. They didn’t raise me, so how would I know how to rule an entire kingdom? I feel like I have no qualities of either of them. Both were kind and thoughtful, putting others needs ahead of their own. I, however, am a rebellious troublemaker who will go out of the way to trip a Maion with a heavy tray rather than help him carry it. The only thing I have is their eyes. Like them, mine resemble the ocean: deep, mysterious, and can turn from raging to calm in a matter of minutes. 

Writer's Block

Writer’s Block, that time in every writer's life when they simply can’t put anything down on paper. The words don’t flow. Inspiration plays hide and seek with your brain. You fear your story will never be written. I understand. Though it may seem like I’m productive and all, I actually procrastinate with writing more than half the time.

The reason I want to talk about this issue early is because it’s one of the toughest hurdles to jump being a writer. To some, ideas cascade like a waterfall in their mind. Their world is as vast and endless as their imagination. The problem: they don’t know how to describe it all on paper. The words don’t come as easily as their ideas. I know a lot about that. I struggled as a writer for the longest time. My ideas were endless, but how I’d write them were a constant problem. Blank pages glared at me for hours. How would I ever start my story?

So what did I do? I read any book I could get my hands on, absorbing its sweet knowlege in my brain. I watched television and movies, paying careful attention to their good and bad points. I observed how others behaved and how their actions affected others. To me, all of this was the key to be a good writer. And it actually worked. Books taught me how to write; the styles I liked and the ones I didn’t. Popular fandoms helped me see what people wanted out of a story, as well as what they didn’t want. People showed me how to make my own characters more organic and less robotic.  

The key to being a good writer is to be a good observer. If you know life works together the story will feel real to the reader. However, this method of learning isn’t always easy. What do you look for? What’s right and what’s not? How do i know if I’m observing the right things? That’s the beauty of writing; there’s no right or wrong way. Writing is a personal art. It adapts to the person writing it. A story is unique to it’s creator. No two stories are alike (that’s plagiarism!).

The most important thing to do when you have writer’s block is to write no matter what. No matter how bad it sounds on paper, any draft is progress; any progress is better than none. So relax. Don’t worry about how it sounds or compares to others. Everyone can improve and everyone can revise and edit. Take your time. Writing is not a marathon.  

ONce you get past writer’s block your work won’t become a chore. It’ll be enjoyable. That’s how it is for me. And that’s how writing is supposed to be.

So smile. You and your story are both unique. Don’t write it for others, for their approval, write for your own. Because self gratification and hard work means more than words can describe.

What does it mean to be a Writer?

“How can I possibly be a writer?”

“I’m not as good as others.”

“I’m too young to write.”

“My writing isn’t going where I want it.”

“Writer’s block has me stuck.”

“Should I just give up?”

“What’s the point if I’ll never be published?”

We’ve all thought or heard these before. Being a writer isn’t easy, but even more so when you’re a teen writer. I’ve been a writer ever since I could pick up a pencil. Trust me, one of the hardest parts is overcoming the negative view of being a teen/young writer. But I’m here to tell you that you’re never too old or too young to write. Adult writers may seem intimidating and more knowledgeable about the world, which is only true because they’ve lived longer than us. But this by no means makes them a better writer. Being part of multiple writers groups, I talk to adult writers on a daily basis. Some are very good writers while some have only just started. Though I’m young, barely an adult, some of my writing can surpass that of an adult writer. The reason? I’ve been writing my whole life and working on my current work in progress, Queen of Light, for about seven years now.  It is by no means perfect, but my work ethic is that of an adult; that’s all that matters.

Let’s take a step back for a moment. You may be asking yourself: “How can overcome writer's block?” “How can I compete with other writers?” “What if I can’t write very well?” The solution: write. It’s that simple. A draft is a draft no matter the quality. Many writers can’t find the motivation to write. And if you can get something down on the paper you’re ahead of the game. As long as you can get your story out you’re already doing better than some; there’s always time for editing later. And if you absolutely can’t think of what to write or how to start, just take your story and imagine hypothetical situations with the characters. It may not seem like much, but taking this time to explore your world is very important. If it is underdeveloped it adds to the frustration of not being able to write. But there’s no rush. I know how you feel. “How great would it be to be published before I’m 18?” It’s a nice thought and all, but the reality is some can do it and some can’t. I’ve accepted that it won’t be true for me, but I keep writing. Why? Because no matter what age I am I’m a writer. There’s a story in me that needs to get out. And there’s a story in each and every teen writer too, and they are just as meaningful and important as one inside an adult writer.

Believe it or not, being a teen writer is actually better than being an adult writer at times. Though we have less experience, we have more time and at this age our imaginations are one of the most active. I’ve found this to be true. Over the years my imagination has only expanded, allowing me to rework my story and add fix problems. So even if you’re simply thinking about a story you’re doing something right. You have all the time in the world to write. Don’t stress about word count or publishing, they can sometimes be distracting.

Now, you may have an idea for a story, but you’re not sure how to work it. What should you do? Ask for help of course! It’s easy. If you have a close friend or teacher or parent ask them to look it over. Having unbiased eyes, eyes of someone who doesn’t write, is a big help. They won’t nit pick at the details, they’ll be looking for how the story works as a whole. And if you have that you’ve already made the skeleton for your story; fleshing it out is easy from there. And if they tell you they don’t like it, don’t get discouraged. It might not be their cup of tea; they could prefer a different genre. But show more than one person so you get a more well rounded opinion. And if there’s a similar point from all, you know what to fix. It’s very important to get opinions of potential readers, to see what people want to read. I’m not saying write to appease popular demand, but sometimes the opinions of the mass are important to think about when writing. The point isn’t to make them happy though, it’s to make yourself happy. But for those who want to be published, public opinion may weigh more heavily.

And what’s the real goal here? Sure, it would be nice to be published and famous, but that’s not why anyone should write. You should write because it’s fun, because you want to. If writing becomes a chore you won’t want to do it anymore. That’s what I do. I write short stories and poetry in addition to my novels. Not for hopes of being published, but because it’s fun to write. It can even be addicting at times. But fact of the matter is, you, yes you, can do it. You can write that novel. You can be amazing. It can be hard at times, and you might want to quit. Take it from someone who’s thought about throwing their story away many times; it’s hard to quit once you start. For me, I just couldn’t abandon the world I created. Something about it pulled me back. And yours can do the same.

Writing isn't throwing words on paper hoping they’ll all make sense. It’s an art. Using the heart, mind, and soul to transport readers to another world. Writing is important to me, and I’m sure it is to many of you as well. It’s been there for me when I was lonely and made me feel like I was good at something. So push through the struggles; you can do it. I’m still here, writing, and so will you. Never give up. Someone out there needs your story. Even if I only have one fan I will always write. So don’t be so hard on yourself; don’t compare yourself to older and more experienced writers. You can only be you. Work at your own pace. You will be truly great, but it takes time. You’ll see yourself make progress. That’s the best feeling in the world. Keep writing. If you’re truly a writer your heart will know. It will never let you throw away something you’ve worked so hard on. So go out and share your story. The world needs it.