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If I were to be sitting inside of a library or somewhere of a similar manner, I would be quite loud, not literally
though. I always wonder about the story that I had begun writing years upon years ago. It was set in a small
neighborhood, it was about this young girl who moved into a medium/large house, white was the color. It had columns in the front, and a large balcony that oversaw the front enterance of the house, as well as the long, green fields that were beautifully laid out after the houses across from the girls'. If I remember correctly, she had moved there, not too happy about leaving her old friends. Meets a young boy, with whom she ends up spending a lot of time with. Summer is over and it turns out that they both go to the same school. About the same age. He is quite unappreciative of nature and the power of the human mind and heart. The story wasn't a typical story in which they fall in love and live happily ever after. It was more about the experiences that they went through, the daily adventures that made the boy more appreciative and the girl a little less naiive. Sometimes I wish I had the time, energy and creativity to rewrite that story and actually complete it. I remember myself being devestated the day the computer died and the story was no where to be found after that.

There was another story that I had written as a child. It was about a girl moving into a new neighborhood, a much fancier one than what she was used to. A young boy that truly likes her follows her parents and her every move. He attempts to understand her ways of life, so that he may change his ways and become 'one of them'. Little does this little boy know that the girl was trying to adjust to the lifestyle as well. It was more of a comical story where the two youngsters meet, each trying to immitate the actions of the other, in hope and in thought that the other was of a better 'standing' and was of a 'higer class' than the other. Time passes by, and the two had grown upon one another. Neither knows the truth about the other. Neither of them knows that the lifestyle that the girl has grown to be acquainted with was as new to her as it was to him. They learn the mysterious ways of life, end up watching the 'older crowd' in effort to learn the 'right ways' as opposed to the 'wrong ways' of life. During this journey of two very confused teenagers, and their attempt to fit in and become one with their surroundings, they find themselves lost. Lost in the sense that they were not aware of the 'teenage years' and the fact that while they were trying to fit in and become what their parents were hoping they would turn into, they lost their true identity. They succeed in adapting to the changes of society. They struggle together, laugh together, fight, cry, and yet find comfort in the arms of each other. Again, this story was not focused on the romantic side of a girl falling in love with a boy. It was more of a comical story about teenagers, their struggle in finding themselves, and the ways that parents tend to make their journey a little more difficult than was anticipated by anyone. It was about having the courage to laugh during the most difficult of times, learning to see that the grass was green on your side of the fence before it was greener on the other side of the fence. Overcoming obstacles, living life, having a laugh and, finding true friendship had never been more interesting than this.

I remember writing a number of stories as a young girl. Just never had the courage to continue writing. Every time I had completed a short story, I'd give it to my mother to read...her comments were always the same, "this is beautiful, is this how you feel?" That question always got to me. For some odd reason it used to bother me, I'd try explaining to her that I did not feel that way, but rather I was just trying to be creative. I'd try to show her evidence throughout the story that it could not possibly be me, she would chuckle and tell me, "it's alright". I guess I stopped writing because I didn't want my mom to continue thinking that every story I wrote represented me. I wanted her to know me for me and not for the characters in the stories. I quit writing a long time ago. Tried giving them to my English teachers in hope that perhaps they would encourage me. They didn't really do much other than tell me, "this is great, but you can't get extra credit." I would try explaining to them that I wasn't writing for the extra credit, but rather for my own satisfaction...they never understood that part. I found no support from those surrounding me, so I gave up and promised to keep my creativity to the minimum. Now, ages later, my creativity is disabled and all I can ever think of, are possible ways I could improve my market share, or improve my dad's business...etc. It's all about business now. I think I hate growing up.

Well, that's my story for the day I guess. Haven't been able to write in a while because my computer had crashed and it took them a while to fix it up and give it back. Oh well, that's life for you.