The process of becoming a writer, by any accomplished definition, entails a long process of experimental dabbling. Writing is a form of art and the expression of oneself, so naturally the germination of a linguistic artist begins at home next to a piece of paper or a computer screen. I have been writing since I was seven years old. Consecrated with a mildly competitive spirit, I was in a benevolent and eternal rivalry with my sister. The title of “biggest tomboy” was coveted (my sister always won), as well as most proficient and gifted writer. Inspired by dramatic and heart-wrenching games of Playmobil, we rapidly gained a firm control over plot lines, word choice and an impressively expansive vocabulary. As we became older, these games evolved into massive projects. These fixations of our amusement would carry us from day to day. Because my sister dominated the stories with her gift for narration, I was often compelled to sit and listen while she domineered the main antagonists and protagonists and often everything in between. The following is a paraphrased quote from one of these soap operas:
“…When she bent to the gallows, she never portrayed an emotion. Even as the executioner walked up from behind her, grazing the nape of her neck with a glinting ax, she only looked determined. When the ax was brought upon her head, not a cry escaped from those stony lips. While the head of most victims wore a grisly mask of terror and pain, hers was still and contained. There was a pall over the crowd…”
However, before you think we were completely morbid, you have to picture this with two pre-pubescent girls crouched over their tiny Playmobil dolls. Full of hushed intensity, one looks grim and the other (usually me) has tears streaming down her face at the grisly end of this much loved protagonist. These stories inspired creativity through words. They allowed us to harness vocabulary and master the art of language. My first stories are also the ones I am most proud of, because they influenced me as a writer. Essays have to come from somewhere, and my place of origin happened to be a series of short stories about a chicken named Ebony. Based on a true chicken who lived at my friend’s house on Johnson Point, this original heroine faced fences, imminent execution and of course the classic and wily fox. From simple pages with continuous sentences and frequent but ignored misspelling, these narratives evolved into complex chronicles of the adventures of a Gallus domesticus. In its final draft the story was narrated by a prudish Canadian goose named Clarence with a fervent dislike at his species stereotype. Apparently, being associated with white birds in bonnets and ribbons was a negative juxtaposition to his actual, accomplished individuality. This story proved my understanding of perspective. By creating a character to narrate the adventures of Ebony, I could follow her without generically narrating from third person omniscient. These stories, however threadbare, provided the foundation of my creative and academic writing for years to come, and have guided me into Honors English and hopefully a brightly linguistic future.
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