When your Spring Break destination suddenly turns into "home," the very least you can do to busy yourself is digging through the archives of your life. This evening I found myself face-to-face with an ill-scanned copy of the prized Fall Out Boy story, written at the ripe old age of 16.
Now, I can clearly see that is it riddled with style errors and marred with run-on sentences, yet I couldn't help but smile and reflect upon the journey from that story to the one I penned most recently.
Writing completely takes over the identity of its victims; sucks them in and cloaks them in a pensive facade until the transformation is complete. And then you don't have a clue as to who you were before the pen felt so natural and malleable in your hand, and sitting in one spot composing for hours is the new norm. Sometimes it happens overnight, and sometimes it takes years.
I feel like this is my identity now. I ramble to my parents about plot, verbiage and the Oxford comma and am greeted with loose nods and confused, sympathetic grins. It's hard to go a day without scouring the national news for a potential localized lead to carry in my back pocket back to school.
To be passionate about anything there has to be an apparent ardor and the faintest, slightest stroke of obsession. Not many understand, but when they do, you'll know. And it may be one of the greatest, most exciting things, or one of the most painful and arduous.
Either way, it is a story in itself.