What Happened to the Girl who Used to Love Fiction?

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Abstract

ed during my childhood years, a time when creativity and imagination flowed without inhibitions.Hot summer days were defined by pure childish joy at the idea of building characters and assigning them a personality of their own. The act of creation was innocent, enthusiastic, flawed and quirky, yet full of hope that one day I’ll write a story so good it would impress my dad. He, to me, was the ultimate literary critic, and falling short of his expectations felt like failing not just him, but myself.Even then, it seemed that no amount of positive feedback from others (my grandma being my biggest supporter and an avid fiction reader) held significance if it didn’t come from my father. It all felt in vain, not good enough or deserving of anyone else’s attention.I don’t blame my father for discouraging me from writing fiction. I

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don’t think his intention was to annihilate my confidence, but to bring a dreamy child with “unrealistic” goals back to Earth. He was and still is a very “fact of the matter” type of man and he wanted to make sure I don’t pursue a writing career, as that might lead to financial struggles. I guess it worked for a while. I stopped writing for many years, and the world of fiction remained untouched. However, it didn’t prevent me from adopting the habit of crafting honest stories altogether.At 26, my passion for writing remains as strong as it was in my childhood. I publish what I want, flaws and quirks included. I’ve reignited my interest in fiction books and even consider returning to writing them. Free from the burden of pleasing my dad, I’ve ironically earned his respect.Life, it seems, has a way of coming full circle.</article></body>

I got discouraged from embracing it at a very young age.

While I haven’t shared a single fiction story of mine on the world wide web, there’s an entire collection of them tucked away in a dusty cupboard at my mom’s house. These are pages upon pages of fiction stories I penned during my childhood years, a time when creativity and imagination flowed without inhibitions.

Hot summer days were defined by pure childish joy at the idea of building characters and assigning them a personality of their own. The act of creation was innocent, enthusiastic, flawed and quirky, yet full of hope that one day I’ll write a story so good it would impress my dad. He, to me, was the ultimate literary critic, and falling short of his expectations felt like failing not just him, but myself.

Even then, it seemed that no amount of positive feedback from others (my grandma being my biggest supporter and an avid fiction reader) held significance if it didn’t come from my father. It all felt in vain, not good enough or deserving of anyone else’s attention.

I don’t blame my father for discouraging me from writing fiction. I don’t think his intention was to annihilate my confidence, but to bring a dreamy child with “unrealistic” goals back to Earth. He was and still is a very “fact of the matter” type of man and he wanted to make sure I don’t pursue a writing career, as that might lead to financial struggles. I guess it worked for a while. I stopped writing for many years, and the world of fiction remained untouched. However, it didn’t prevent me from adopting the habit of crafting honest stories altogether.

At 26, my passion for writing remains as strong as it was in my childhood. I publish what I want, flaws and quirks included. I’ve reignited my interest in fiction books and even consider returning to writing them. Free from the burden of pleasing my dad, I’ve ironically earned his respect.

Life, it seems, has a way of coming full circle.