I Am A Creative Writer
When I was young, not much was really admired in my home, except for the arts. It was not easy though. My mother was by far very strict; I was denied Kindergarten, preschool or anything of the likes, because she viewed it as too childish. I was 5 when she dropped a massive Roman History book in front of me and told me to write an essay. I didn't know what one was. I remember having the biggest beating for it. As I grew up, I wasn't allowed children's books with pictures, it was always chapter books. I hated reading at first, because it was something that was forced on me.
But it became an outlet from the things at home. I would often sit under my bed with a torch and read for hours, drowning out the sounds of violence. Eventually, I became confident enough to write my own stories. My very first story was about a dragon, and a young man. I loved it so much. I entered into a competition at school, and won first place. I was so happy and excited I ran home and gave it to my mother. I expected her to be proud that I had gotten an award for something she had enjoyed when she was younger but instead she stood up, grabbed the story and burnt it in front of me. My award was thrown in the bin. She told me that I would never get anywhere, that I was awful.
When she died, I tried again, and this time I got far. I was offered a scholarship for my art and writing, and even though life events forced me to move away so I couldn't do it it was still one of my proudest moments, because I proved her wrong.
But it became an outlet from the things at home. I would often sit under my bed with a torch and read for hours, drowning out the sounds of violence. Eventually, I became confident enough to write my own stories. My very first story was about a dragon, and a young man. I loved it so much. I entered into a competition at school, and won first place. I was so happy and excited I ran home and gave it to my mother. I expected her to be proud that I had gotten an award for something she had enjoyed when she was younger but instead she stood up, grabbed the story and burnt it in front of me. My award was thrown in the bin. She told me that I would never get anywhere, that I was awful.
When she died, I tried again, and this time I got far. I was offered a scholarship for my art and writing, and even though life events forced me to move away so I couldn't do it it was still one of my proudest moments, because I proved her wrong.
