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Katie Vidrine

Mrs. Layton

English 1010

Sept. 10th, 2019

A Literary Self-Reflection

As a writer, I wouldn’t say I’m one of the best. In fact, the truth is that I’m not even close

to being a good writer; I don’t practice basic writing skills, or do anything involving putting

descriptive words on a page. I definitely don’t write regularly. That’s who I am now, but not

what I used to be like. To be honest, it would break the heart of my eight year old self to know

that I ended up like this.

When I was much younger, I dreamed of being an author, to become a famous writer. I

wanted to eventually share my multiple stories to the world, and earn a living off of it. I tried my

hardest to be one of the best at writing in my age-group. I would write stories for months on end,

create whole new worlds in my head, and eventually write them all down in a big white binder.

I’d take that binder with me everywhere. If I needed to watch a soccer game, I’d be sitting in a

green foldable chair, writing my heart away at a story about unicorns. Anytime we went on

vacation, or visited family in different states, I always took that binder with me. I was attached to

my stories, I loved the idea of creating a whole new, unique, colorful universe. I loved making

characters and building brand-new lives.

Consequently, after taking my binder of stories everywhere, I had accidentally left it in

my half-brother’s little tan house, all the way in Nevada. When my parents and I told him, we

realized that I probably wouldn’t see that binder until the next time he drove to Northern Utah. It
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would be months until I saw it again. He found it lying on the leather couch in his living room,

and, of course, looked through the binder while it was in his possession. I didn’t want to share

them with anyone in that moment, but it made me realize how uncomfortable it felt to have

someone else read my stories. At the time, I just wanted to become better at putting my ideas on

paper.

Around when I left my binder at my brother’s house, I was almost 13 years old, and I had

been writing in that binder for over 4 years. After losing that binder for a handful of months, I

started entertaining myself with other things. I would play computer games, hike around the hills

near my house, spend time with friends, and participate in other activities like that. After taking a

break from writing as much, I slowly lost those writing skills by not prioritizing them, and

eventually I forgot my love of writing.

It was a gradual process, but I don’t write anymore. Additionally, I’m probably behind

my peers on a writing level. I can write when it’s needed, but I could never picture myself

writing for fun, or even imagine making a living by simply putting words on paper. I understand

how important it is to have that communication skill, but I personally believe I lost it long ago.