The boy who wrote


As part of an Assignment of Writing II: Rhetorical Composing in Coursera, we were asked to write about ourselves as writers, what got us to this point as writers. Below you can read my own essay on the subject. Have fun reading it🙂

Unlike any other story of writing, my own story does not begin with writing, but rather with reading and watching television. A lone first-born child that spend most of its time with his grandparents. Early in life, reading comic books and watching cartoons was one of the most satisfying activities in his life. The comic books were the first form of reading, an easy and quick way to learn how to read. Soon, the stories of Donald Duck, Mickey Mouse and Scrooge MacDuck were not enough and had chosen to live many more lives through television. Then, the worlds began to multiply as a new world was opening its doors to the young child, a world of books, a world of myths or ancient knights, another world of small detectives or of a crazed old Spaniard on his old horse.

 Writing never passed through his mind, rather the creation of stories. Many toys could be found in his bedroom, from cars to swords, a batman figure and a few toy soldiers on the other corner of the room. But the favourite activities were always outside, at the yard, with a sword, both a toy and an imaginary one, the little boy could travel through the world he read and not only. A sailor and a pirate, a ninja but also a hero were born in that empty yard with the few trees.

 The stories of playing were sometimes transferred inside, were the sofa could be a fishing boat and a piece of paper a new world to conquer. Stick figures were the first written form of story he created. Where his simple mind could create stories of mages and soldiers rescuing princesses, where evil kings held them prisoners or traps and challenges were in front of them. Drawn castle after drawn was conquered.

 But the first real story he created was one of his own country. A country torn in half because of invaders. Where the enemy flag was always visible in front of his house in the opposing mountain range. His half-torn country was his first great inspiration. To become a bird and to travel, to see and learn of the land he missed without knowing. His thoughts passed through his heart and went to his hands, only to jump on to the pencil that shaped them into words. An elementary essay, became the first form of recognition and the spark for writing.

 Creativity was the force that released his mortal chains. Going through high-school, the child became a boy. And the inspiration took other forms, of love and sorrow, of world to conquer and worlds to live by, kings and villains, castles and star-ships. Mythical creatures took breaths from the pen and died in a drawer, only to be reignited in his mind just to fade again. Until one day, a new world was to be created. A world inspired by the greatest writer. Tolkien was the first admiration, he became an aspiration, an example and a teacher. You don’t need to create a temporary world, you can create your own universe once and for all. And so a mythical kingdom of creatures and heroes was created. Through the magic of a pen and the imagination of a boy, a kingdom to follow him in every moment and add stories from now and then.

 And the reading continued, from books to comics, from middle earth and fighting the dark lord, the boy went to fight for mutant liberation in comic books. The worlds clashed and shaped and inspired and excited him. Classic adventures took the place of fiction and then became myths and stories and vice versa.

 But the story never ends, as poetry came to stay, the art of writing musically was there and wanted to stay. The boy grew to a man. The stories were less and less, but each breath of inspiration was a whole life to him. In that time, a moment of boredom could birth a fight between an orc shaman and a human druid, at that moment the man left our world and joined the fight. The pen was just the conductor, the means to a travel. But the decision was made, writing could only be the love, the heart but not more. The world did not seem ready for writers and another road should be chosen.

 The art of writing is to create, to share and to love. It is an art and needs inspiration, forcing it was never his way. Writing comes and goes and he always wishes it to stay, but it is a fleeting moment of truth inside the lies that surround us. Thus I share with you my story of being somewhat of a writer. Therefore the greek word “ερασιτέχνης” brings its full means to what I am, an amateur in truth but in essence a lover of the art (“εραστής” (lover) + “τέχνη” (art) = “ερασιτέχνης” (amateur)).

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