My name is Mandy Peacock, and I'm a writer. Completely, wholly, undeniably, a writer. By the time I was three, I was scouring the Arthur books at the library, soaking up every story. I loved how the words were printed on the page. I loved running my fingers over the smooth paper, the bright, colorful illustrations, and the old, damaged covers. By the time I was four years old, I was holding pen to paper, writing a colorful series consisting of seventeen books, each one about a different girl. By the time I was about eight, I knew it was my job to be a writer. There was simply nothing else for me. Writing was who I was. I loved it when my dad brought my old yellow-cover Nancy Drew books from the thrift store. I scoured over them, studying them. I wrote mysteries. I wrote fantasies. I wrote fiction. I wrote non-fiction. I read everything I could get my hands on, hitching a ride to the library whenever I could. I loved poising myself over the keyboard, ready to pour my heart into whatever story I was working on.
As I got older, writing became my escape. It was something I could always turn to, something I could always pour my heart into. I loved feeling the characters, feeling their pain, feeling their joy, feeling their emotions rush over me. When I was nine or ten, I wrote a story with my best Internet friend. I absolutely loved logging into my Gmail account and discovering the title in bold. It was my turn to add. And, honestly, I'm not such a good co-writer. I love controlling the story, and I can get pretty bossy. The thing is, I'm not bossy about anything else. But I need my writing to be the way I want it to be. Because sometimes, when I would cry myself to sleep during those awful nights of tween-ness (I don't like to thing about that), writing was what I could turn to. It was hard, being a tween. (I also can't describe how much I hate the word "tween") But I held that story tightly in my fist, not letting her have it. Which is probably why it was a total flop.
But a few years later, we started a new story. I loved the idea as much as I loved my rabbit. I thought about it constantly, itching for it to be my turn on that story. This is my chance, I thought as I typed my heart out, This is the story that's gonna make it big. But that story fell apart. I, once again, took control of it, holding it as tightly as I could. And the reason for that is simply, I was scared. This was my story, my chance to be a writer, and I was scared to let her have it. I was scared she would, you know, ruin it. Which is so silly, because she's an awesome writer and never ruined it. But I was still terrified. I wrote the "important" parts and left her to write the "filler." No one can ruin the filler. But, of course, she got fed up with me. And can I blame her? Of course not. She ditched the story. And I cried. For so long, I cried. Because I had never written a substantial story on my own. This book will never be published, I thought as I slammed my door and cried. My dream would never come true.
But with a lot of encouragement, I faced it again. I held my breath as I opened the document, my heart pounding. It looked exactly the same. I scrolled through it slowly. Nothing had changed. But it felt...empty somehow. This was mine. To do whatever with it that I wanted. So I did. I wrote and wrote and wrote until there was nothing in me anymore. I finished March of 2013. I gave it six weeks and opened it again.
I hated every word.
Every flaw stuck out at me.
A normal person would never say that.
This sentence is so awkward.
Why would I even write this crap?!
I got really discouraged. I thought this story was great. But it wasn't.
So I started from scratch. I opened a blank document and wrote. I wrote out all the flaws, switched around some characters, and just wrote. This is the book I am currently working on.
So yeah, I've had some rough patches, but I'm still going to be a writer. Because I believe in myself, and my work. Sometimes I don't, but then I scroll through the story again. And I laugh at the witty dialogue. I sniffle at the beautiful, emotional scenes. And I close the computer thinking, This isn't as bad as I thought.
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