I Was 7 When I Wrote My First Book (it wasn’t good)

I was seven when I wrote Standing in the Night: a four-page catastrophe, riddled with spelling errors and based heavily on a TV show my parents were watching at the time.

Unsurprisingly, it’s not good.

But despite its (many) flaws, it will always be a masterpiece to me. It marked the beginning of my deep-rooted love for writing and has the sort of charm that can only really be created by a seven-year-old with high ambitions, and a stomach filled with cupcake icing.

Writing has been a major part of my life since that moment. While my friends played make-believe at school, I was hunkered down with pencils and paper – writing myself worlds to live in and drafting dreadful poetry. They’d go home to play with dolls while I read books; and would spend their time dreaming about being veterinarians, doctors, and superstars whereas I had my eyes set on one thing: writing.

Like most people, I had a diary growing up. The kind I’d hide under my bed as though it contained Top-Secret-Stuff and fill with blasé entries that encapsulated what I deemed important. Namely, my love for cats and my dislike of sunburns. I’d write religiously for several days and then give it up (or forget about it) until something monumental came along that I just had to document.

Since 2017, I’ve been writing in my journal every day. It’s become a comfort; a salve when I’ve needed it, a distraction when I’ve wanted one, and a great way to win arguments. (Seriously.) (When a disagreement breaks out beneath our roof about who said what or who should have done whatever, I turn to the index pages of my journal and track down the answer.)

Now, I’ve decided to start this blog. I’m not quite sure what it’ll turn into, but I think there’s something magical about not knowing.

Thank you for coming along for the ride.

P.S More writing and more about me.
(Art by Celeste Berlier.)