I know a girl who once lived in her own world.
Her passion for books and the adventures they held filled her mind during her every waking moment. She had no cellphone, no tablet, no laptop. She carried her novels with her, staying up at night, not to text with friends but to find out what her other ‘friends’ were doing in their world of words. As her classmates’ parents begged their children to read a book, she was being told to get her nose out of one. She read so much, so often, that the stories began to blur, their plots becoming one, the characters belonging to the same massive universe. Yet she still continued to read, because it was her passion, her weakness, her joy, her escape. She knew she was going to spend the rest of her life living in books, but she never wondered whether she might, one day, hold a book she wasn’t eager to read, since she would have been the one to write it.
That is, until she read the book that finally freed her own words.
It was not a particularly special book, nothing so sacred as the Bible, nor as illustrious as Macbeth, but to her, she had found something that was akin to herself. The words, the characters, the plot, the alternate universe that flooded into her mind as she turned page after page; it was a sensation she had never felt before, even after her many years of books. The story was familiar, even though it was set in a dystopian future, and the protagonist’s strength, skill, and survivability attracted her. The book became her beginning, for her newfound ability had emerged through her reading of that book. It became her companion, helped her through the words she would go on to write. It would guide, has guided, and will guide her through her own adventures in the world of words that would belong to her.
That girl was me, and the book irrelevant.