I wanted to write a story, when I was in 5th or 6th grade. I even carried a little notebook around with me and scribbled down ideas for it (which, admittedly, I still do for this blog). It was going to be about a girl, named Ashley, who was very misunderstood. I'd like to think it was ambitious of my 11 year old self.
I made the mistake of sharing it before I was ready. Late at night, with older cousins I had wanted to pretend were closer to me and paid more attention to me than I knew they really were or did. I told them everything I had thought of, down to the details of how my Ashley would sneak out of her bedroom window late at night. It wasn't deep, it wasn't promising, it wasn't good. And they smiled, a forced, polite smile, that said all that, a smile that I can remember clearly, even now. "That's nice," they said. And it shattered.
I never wrote it. I never looked in my little notebooks again. And I regret it. Yes, it was stupid, but I still wish I'd done it instead of feeling silly and letting it go. Stand by your ideas. They're precious, fragile, infinitely priceless, and dangerous to lose.
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