I never realized how much space my brain has to create cool things. 

When I was younger, I thought everyone spent hours and hours writing for fun. It was only when I brought a half full college notebook to my friend’s house after school that I realized I was not only wrong, I was apparently way less fun than I’d thought.

I mean, in her defense, she’d been subjected to sit through an unfortunately long, self-made pitch for a My Little Pony (2010) movie, original characters and creative liberties very much taken into account. If I weren’t me, maybe I’d be a little annoyed, too.

And I’m not gonna sit here and act like being imaginative is a completely unique experience, and I’m the only kid in the world to ever write, but I don’t think many kids I knew wrote to the extent that I did.

I wanted to be well-versed in every form of writing there was. Screenwriting, poetry, autobiographical, songwriting, choreography. I wanted to be a walking thesaurus.

Not much has changed in that regard, to be completely honest—I keep a list of words I like in my notes app. Words that ring and roll off the tongue, the ones that make you upset you didn’t think of them first. Words that ‘spark joy’. Pulchritudinous* in nature.

There’s also an ‘absurd words’ subset, for the ones that are so ridiculous that I have to work them into my vernacular somehow. (See: pulchritudinous.)

I’ve always been known to be the writer. The person who edits your papers, the person who actually enjoys English classes, and scribbles little lines into the margins of whatever I’m reading. 

I distinctly remember being in elementary school and amazing several of my teachers, just by speaking and writing. It feels weird to say that now, because though I know it’s a strong suit of mine, it feels cocky to admit it.

I don’t celebrate what I write very much anymore. I kinda tear myself down for it, more often than not.

Lately I’ve had an influx of inspiration. With dancing, with writing, with composition.

There’s new characters, new ideas, new avenues I want to get into. Where can my brain go?

Sometimes it feels like I’ve made this huge door, full of locks and latches, that guards me from making anything. From feeling good at the things I enjoy. From being talented.

But I think now’s the time to try to undo some of those locks. 

One by one, I’m finding keys and unhooking chains. I can even see a little light peaking through the crack beneath that door. I hope to fully open it one day, and fully appreciate how good I am at what I do. 

Because in all honesty, I’m not just a good writer. I’m a good creator.