That day had been drenched in honey gold sunlight. My small hands reached for the red contraption, the strange object filled to the brim with thick crimson mystery. And in that moment, I believe, I started to create.

Before I knew it, vines were crawling from my pen, draping themselves over and through the paper, sprouting daisies and roses and small fruits from the realm of the Fae. Colors never before seen by humans spilled from between the pale lines of the notebooks. Suddenly happy hurricanes were floating in swirling spherical madness above my head, dribbling down the sugary magicks of the Ancients. 

I was invincible.

And even though that was long ago, I still hold my pen the same way. 

You see, writing is an art. It's a way of life. When a person identifies themselves as a writer, they identify also as a communicator between that which humans can see and that which humans cannot.

I like to think of Inspiration as a creature; a moody, temperamental creature who enjoys hiding in the dark when you need it the most, snarling and biting, screeching and drooling. Then comes the day when you really should be doing something important, something that will possibly decide the fate of your existence, something like diffusing a bomb or making a pact with the rain daemons or forming an alliance that will save your ancient walnut clan. That's when Inspiration curls up next to you like a cat who's only nice to you when it's hungry, rubbing its soft fur all over your bare legs and winding its tail around your knee. 

And when Inspiration decides to pay you a visit, it doesn't leave easily. It dumps paint over everything you own, douses your most prized possessions in glitter, drowns your thoughts in things you can build. When it drops that apple seed into your hand, you have no choice but to plant it and watch it blossom into something strange and breathtaking. 

I usually end up writing in the wee hours of the morning with only a flashlight and a box of crackers to keep me company. I suggest not doing this, especially when something is trying to wrap its paws around your throat, but Inspiration is much stronger than Slumber. Whatever comes to mind, however whimsical, is what I tend to leak onto paper. So far I have written a trilogy of religious texts for a kingdom of ants that requested my help (and ability to hold a pencil), a classical dramatic movie about a giant trying to fit into a tiny raincoat, and my personal favorite, a scientific textbook about the different shapes and personalities of raindrops.  

This year was especially productive. I learned things about creativity and about musical instruments that appear and cheer you on when you get a good grade on a certain play you wrote, and that I'm actually really bad at managing my time. Also, some teachers are really cool and they allow you to sneak swear words into your writing. Furthermore, I discovered that mice aren't keen on pants...

Most importantly, I learned that I can write anything I want to.

And here's my advice to you, young squire: You, too, can write anything you want to. Don't you dare give up, you adorable little pumpkin flower. Life is your tortilla, now you can eat it, or you can make art with it. Some people would beg to differ, but I'm telling you, sugarpine, you do you. Dance on your life tortilla and wear those red heels on that date (because if he's too concerned about his masculinity and is threatened by your height advantage, he's not worth your time)! 

Write. 

Put your soul on paper. 

Seriously, just rip it out, strings and organs attached, and make it go splat! on the page! 

It's worth every tear and paper cut, darling, I promise you that.

Write! 

((this was my semester reflection essay for my creative writing final yeyeyeyeyeye))