Little Tikes to Big Writes

My journey as a writer began not with a pen in my hand, but a paintbrush. And not a normal paintbrush, either; a Little Tikes Learn & Play Shapes & Sounds Paintbrush, one of my most cherished possessions at five years of age. Back then, life was simple; I drew the correct shape, and I was instantly rewarded with exciting flashes of light and fun sounds. I didn’t have much perspective on careers at five years old, but I figured that if this was what being an artist was like– getting to draw shapes all day and auctioning paintings off for millions of dollars– my career was set out for me. I was going to be the next Leonardo da Vinci, and people from all corners of the world would flock to behold my beautifully painted shapes, of all sizes and colors. 

And I would have been… if I hadn’t grown up. But alas, the years passed, and I found my once stubby, tiny sausages growing into long fingers, and my Little Tikes Learn & Play Shapes & Sounds Paintbrush turning into a boring, black paintbrush– one that didn’t have exciting flashes of light and fun sounds. My fifth-grade art teacher wrenched me from my carefree world, filled with drawing the same six shapes all day, and threw me into a dreadful dystopia for 45 minutes every day, filled with learning about “color theory” and “shading.” By that point, I had realized that art was not cut out for me.

 But even though I had failed to become the next Leonardo da Vinci, I still missed what art had to offer; that opportunity to use my creativity, to bundle up the whirlwind of ideas flying around my brain into a small, tight ball, and to project it onto an unsuspecting, boring blank sheet of paper for the world to see. I knew I needed a new hobby. And so I searched, and searched, and searched. And even though I made new hobbies and interests along the way, nothing filled the   gaping hole in my heart that art had left… until I found writing, in the sixth grade during my school’s creative writing unit. 

Immediately, I was thrown into a world– but instead of being a dystopian, 45 minute world like my fifth grade art period, this was a world where I was in control– where I was free to wrestle that storm of ideas into a powerful spark and let it shine for the world to see. And the best part was… I loved it.  The more I wrote, the more I had to say to the world. Writing had given me back the joy of creation—only this time, with words instead of paint.