I handed my notebook to her with my hands shaking and butterflies in my stomach. It was the very first work in progress that I had ever created and giving it over was nerve wracking. I had the nerve to do so then. I had the nerve to think that I had what it took to create a story and run with it; make something of it. Maybe even make something of myself. I wanted nothing more in life.
Being an author was a huge dream of mine. It was a dream that took up all of my thoughts, every day. I have spent my life reading. For as long as I can remember, I have loved to curl up in the tiny bay window in the living room with a good book. It wasn’t long before I was reading books way above the ones suggested for my age range. I was reading books that some adults would have found hard to read; but I couldn’t get enough of them. I filled my time with fantasy worlds made up by other authors.
I watched her face as she skimmed through my handwritten novella. Her face spoke volumes well before her mouth ever did. I had watched her face because I was nervous, and as her face scrunched, I knew she did not approve. She wasn’t going to have a single good thing to say about any of it. I could see in her face as she read though my words that she didn’t have a care in the world for all the time I had taken to write down every word by hand. I could see that she wasn’t going to acknowledge anything from my work because she didn’t approve of any of it.
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