It was a diary for me, as well. As a child I had vivid daydreams which I didn't share with anyone. To be honest, I thought I was a little bit crazy because the daydreams where quite detailed and seemed very real. I began keeping a diary. The entries morphed. I began putting down on paper the adventures I had in my head, and realized I was writing stories. Still, it took decades before I dared share my stories with anyone.
My sixth grade English teacher liked a story of mine so much that she asked me if she could read it to the class. After sharing it with all my peers (it was a murder mystery involving many of them), she submitted it to a competition that was hosted by the Miami-Dade County Fair and Exposition. I won first place and was gifted a pen and pencil with the fair's logo. It's still one of my most prized possessions.
No diary for me, could be used against me at home. But I wrote my first short story in 7th grade, my teacher loved it and read it to the class. Around that time there were a rash of arsons in my neighborhood of Humboldt Park and in Pilsen in Chicago. Puerto Rican and Mexican families, including children, were dying in these fires. Firefighters didn’t know a word of Spanish then so the victims were blamed for their own deaths because they called out ¡Ayunda! Instead of Help! I decided then that one day I wound tell stories about Spanish speaking people who lived in the ghetto so that they would be seen as human beings and worthy of living.
In retrospect, I guess I thought I was a writer when I was in elementary school. I saved my pennies to buy a little pink diary with a heart lock and a tiny key. I started writing my little stories and putting my diary away every night. Then one day I found it broken open. My mom had read my diary because she felt that it was her responsibility to know everything I was thinking and doing. I threw out the little book and stopped writing. In high school I took a creative writing elective senior year and actually got a story published in my school magazine. But I didn't have another journal until I was in college and living away from home. I still have that journal which has now grown to be dozens of volumes long. But I didn't actually consider myself a writer until I was published in a literary journal when I was over forty years old. I still journal on a regular basis and those books are still sacred to me. No one, no one touches them. I loved my mother dearly but I don't think I have ever forgiven her for violating my words. Perhaps I would have come to writing much earlier in my life had that intrusion not happened. My first novel wasn't published until I was fifty nine years old.
It was a diary for me, as well. As a child I had vivid daydreams which I didn't share with anyone. To be honest, I thought I was a little bit crazy because the daydreams where quite detailed and seemed very real. I began keeping a diary. The entries morphed. I began putting down on paper the adventures I had in my head, and realized I was writing stories. Still, it took decades before I dared share my stories with anyone.
I suspected there might be a few others out there that got started in their own diaries. Thanks for sharing, Aracelis!
My sixth grade English teacher liked a story of mine so much that she asked me if she could read it to the class. After sharing it with all my peers (it was a murder mystery involving many of them), she submitted it to a competition that was hosted by the Miami-Dade County Fair and Exposition. I won first place and was gifted a pen and pencil with the fair's logo. It's still one of my most prized possessions.
LOVE this story! Thanks for sharing, Alejandro!
No diary for me, could be used against me at home. But I wrote my first short story in 7th grade, my teacher loved it and read it to the class. Around that time there were a rash of arsons in my neighborhood of Humboldt Park and in Pilsen in Chicago. Puerto Rican and Mexican families, including children, were dying in these fires. Firefighters didn’t know a word of Spanish then so the victims were blamed for their own deaths because they called out ¡Ayunda! Instead of Help! I decided then that one day I wound tell stories about Spanish speaking people who lived in the ghetto so that they would be seen as human beings and worthy of living.
Incredible, Marisel. To be both witness and writer to this and other stories ... I cannot wait to read THE GIRLS FROM HUMBOLDT PARK. Abrazos, Cristina
In retrospect, I guess I thought I was a writer when I was in elementary school. I saved my pennies to buy a little pink diary with a heart lock and a tiny key. I started writing my little stories and putting my diary away every night. Then one day I found it broken open. My mom had read my diary because she felt that it was her responsibility to know everything I was thinking and doing. I threw out the little book and stopped writing. In high school I took a creative writing elective senior year and actually got a story published in my school magazine. But I didn't have another journal until I was in college and living away from home. I still have that journal which has now grown to be dozens of volumes long. But I didn't actually consider myself a writer until I was published in a literary journal when I was over forty years old. I still journal on a regular basis and those books are still sacred to me. No one, no one touches them. I loved my mother dearly but I don't think I have ever forgiven her for violating my words. Perhaps I would have come to writing much earlier in my life had that intrusion not happened. My first novel wasn't published until I was fifty nine years old.
Amazing story. I'm so glad you kept going despite this early transgression. We're lucky so have your writing with us now, Dahlma!