Of Writing and Life
By Simply Shelby

I was deep in thought today while performing the mundane task of straightening my room. Er. Reorganising, as it were. I never realise how much I have until I have to put it someplace.

There were piles upon piles of folded notebook paper, filled with cramped, middle school handwriting. I remembered when I used to walk around with those folded papers in my back pocket and a pen in hand all the time. Back then, I was more involved in my stories than in the reality around me. My family says that to be an artist, you must be mad. They also say that I haven't quite reached that point. Yet.

There were also a few Ziploc bags full of typed ink-filled words. From both the computer and the typewriter. I remembered how each key had a different feel, a different emotion to go along with it. The words reflected the emotions. And, though the computer may be easier to use, the typewriter never disappointed. Even after hours of frustration.

Then, the notebooks. Thousands of pages filled with words. Printed words, cursive words, handwritten words. Words in pen, words in pencil, words in highlighter, words in marker, words in crayon. In anything I could get my hands on at the time.

It was somewhat surreal.

What my hands found next, unsettled me. A book with a bookmark. A poetry journal encased in plastic. A magazine with a folded page. When I realised what they were, I blinked. It is still odd to be considered a "published" author. Despite the fact that a three-year-old could do it, it is some sort of an accomplishment. Though, the scale I am on is with little to no recognition. I hid these treasures in a box. Something, I'm sure, my mum would disapprove of.

It is odd how life progresses.