Sndbox Summer Camp Writing - Task I. When your mind is never quiet

I had to sit down for this one. And think back. Where did it all begin? Did the pen appear in my hands magically or was it always there? Have I always known? And if so, why did I stray from my path? Was it for experience? Exploring other options, maybe? Is the grass always greener in the neighbor's backyard? Did I have no time for it? No energy? No ideas? Was it because everything I started ended with me facing a brick wall?

I always wanted to do big things. My ideas and imagination would run wild in my head. Multiple threads of thought in my brain. At the same time. Countless activities that my mom convinced me to try out. Nothing stuck. Everything got boring for one reason or another. It was repetitive. Until I found it. My goldmine. The thing that constantly evolves.

---

I was born in that awkward time when the Internet was just starting to bloom in my country. It was not popular yet. I think I can partly thank that for where I am today. And how I turned out to be. In this day, I say with a conviction, that for me my journey to writing started the second I came in this world. When I think back to it, I realize that my first steps prepared me for drafting stories. I had the head for other things but printing turned out to be all I wanted to do. At least subconsciously. My conscious mind didn't always know. It was lost sometimes.

When I was a baby. Or a toddler. My mom started teaching me English. It was my second first language and I loved it even then. More than my own. I consumed my old textbook like it was air. I do not know where it is today, though. But I remember how it looked even now, after almost twenty years.

I also thought it to be very odd that I was taught English and not Russian. I had no idea that the first was such a huge language. What does a child know but what he hears? Russian was what was widely used around me. It was almost as big as our own tongue. Still, English it was for me. I can not be thankful enough for that decision my mom made. And that is what I learned (Russian did come but much later). That was the first brick in the foundation.

When I was seven years old (maybe six). I remember reading my first serious book, ''Karlsson on the Roof'' by Astrid Lindgren. Now, it was a massive publication. Small print. Horrible for a child(my opinion then). I cried at least until I was halfway done with the children's tale. You see, my mom made me read every day, for 30 minutes. Then hour when I got better. When the middle was reached, though, I stopped crying. I understood what was in the book. The story it told. I wasn't just reading and being confused anymore.

My book fell out of its covers, it took me so long. I had probably mistreated it, too. Soon my mom did not have to sit next to me to check if I was reading. A time later, I even started reading silently, instead of out loud. I read the book and then started it over, to get it. Before my limited abilities had prevented me from appreciating the piece. I was hooked.

I think the book collapsed in parts years later. When I was holding it again. But that is irrelevant. The important part is that I never stopped. We had a small library branch in my area. I read all the books in it that seemed like a good option. I participated in Children's jury, where I read a specific book and gave it a mark. I read and I read, and I read. Until I wrote my own books when I was around fourteen(possibly fifteen) years old.

They were in Latvian and they are completely terrifying to look at. But I still remember printing and sewing the pages together myself. It was fun, it was glorious, it was inspiring. True, I wrote something similar to Gossip Girl. Chuckles. But it was a start. Far from my work of today as I rarely stray from fictional fantasy or science fiction. But I was there, I loved doing it. Until I didn't.

When I was around the age of sixteen, I dried out. I had no wish to write. I had ideas but I was not into it. As I started looking for a Highschool/professional school and as I began clumsily climbing my way through puberty I went into depression. My mind still flew and had a wondersome experience every night, in my dreams. But I could not make myself to put words on paper. It was like a curse that I had put on myself.

I was confused and lost for so long. My first relationship didn't help, it completely erased my thoughts about writing. I partied when I got 18, I worked and studied at the same time. I had a million excuses not to write. I picked up a pen or sat at the keyboard once in a while. A page would come out, for a novel. But the idea would die. I was lost in life and I had lost my passion without knowing it.

Step by step, as my graduation from the school of Architecture came, I realized that it was not for me. I wanted to write. I knew that then. Again. And I wanted to do it in English. Even my depression had played a part in improving my scribbling. I had watched a million TV-Shows and knew the language much better. So, I began looking for schools. I needed to find the best one. But the top one cost more money than my mom made in a decade. And I am a person that moved out from home the second I was eighteen. I did not want to burden my mom. And I most certainly was not going to take out a student loan.

I started moving. First to Ireland, then to Gran Canaria. I went to Ireland to earn money for my studies. I applied to the University of my choice but flunked the last test. It was on purpose. I still did not have enough to pay for that shiny education. I did not want to feel like I had it slipping through my fingers so I cut the opportunity off. On my terms. Additionally, I doubted it all. The system. My years in a professional high-school had taught me that you waste a lot of time. The curriculum was structured to take 4 years to study. What I learned in that school is what I could have learned in six months. If I sat right next to an architect. Life was too short for that. It still is.

The job I had in Ireland wasn't something I wanted to do so I moved to Gran Canaria. Now, I knew that I wanted to write. After all, I had applied for that University. But I was lost. I didn't see options as I had decided against going to a school. I worked there, on a tropical island, and was still unsatisfied. I am not one to settle for mediocrity. It is just not my thing. Again, life is too short for that.

I met my boyfriend in Maspalomas. I got to know him. He was constantly pursuing what he wanted. He had projects on his own that he was working on. I wanted to have that. Granted, he was five years older than me and had had time to build up to where he was but I was not going to wait for that. It made me depressed and determined at the same time. The fact that he tried to help me, pushed me.

We moved to Germany as the desert island of the Canaries was not for me. Jonas (my boyfriend) needed a change as well. We came here, where I am now and I still wanted to write. I didn't. My mind was so exhausted from doing things that didn't fill me. I did nothing for at least three months. I lived on my savings, I complained about not having options(and didn't search for them for a while) and I walked around constantly battling myself.

Then I found steemit. Imagine that. Granted, it was first Bitcoin and then the rest, but I found this place. I started slow. Little by little. My dry spell was over. I eased back in what I had missed for years. My language needed improvement(it still does) but I did it. Every day, I wrote. It has been almost a year (a months short) now and I am so happy. I think I am the happiest I have ever been with my writing. It is much better. I have met people that have helped me along the way. I have met a ''real'' writer. Without ''aspiring'' before the ''writer''.

I am happy. This is what makes me whole. To be able to write. To express. To share what goes on in my head and heart.

A drawing I created for a story of mine

---

I mostly write about the things I see in my dreams. I was that child that talked to herself a lot. I was always absent and my mom's second husband accused me of pretending that I did not hear. I was honestly on another planet altogether. It was spectacular, marvelous, breathtaking. And that is why I write. I want others to see the wonders I see. I want others to travel through tunnels, the universe, and seas. I want to create something that inspires millions. And, yes, I want it to be as huge as Harry Potter. Because, look how many people have been made happy thanks to these books? How many things can be learned from them...

I am also pained by the gory part of humanity. That is why I want to make it big. I want to give and have hope. I want to reach out my hand and aid another human. Up when he is down. I want our innocence to be given back to us. As with it, we tend to have lighter and more compassionate hearts. I am cynical myself. I do not know if it is humans or my dreams that have taught me more about life and its shadows. But I do not want to be just a bystander, a complainer that never does anything.

I do not need my name to stay in the history books. I just want to be useful while I live. And for me, useful is creating. That is why I write. I love it. I see the endless wisdom in it. Sndbox is yet another stepping stone. A learning experience that I would love to be a part of. For better me and people around me. Brick by brick. I want to build a solid structure of knowledge and life experiences.

There is so much one can give to another and I am looking for help to later give it. I want to improve so I can help others succeed in their own lives. I want to be confident in my writing and I want to learn to teach. I love communities. I love spending time with people who have more experience than me. If there is somebody smarter than me in a room then I can learn a thing or two from them. It is always good to be in a company that has seen much. Sndbox might just be it. From what I read, it is.

I do not have a particular style that could be described as a textbook way of writing. I write ''me'', my way. I have been told that I hold the reader at an arm's length. That I am a writer that tells instead of showing. This is the criticism I have received. But I do not know if that is a bad thing. For me, I mean. I like my style to a point. I want to improve it to another. I haven't found my balance yet and I would like to go on a journey to discover it. But my foundation, I am sure about. That I am proud of even if I still have a long way to go. To reach the top.

---

Thank you @Anomadsoul for directing me in the way of this contest. I was so happy to read that writers do not have to make a video in a busy place :D. I would probably do it but it would probably be very, very. Very, very, very awkward.

If you are interested, check out the project here and here!

I have a long way to go and I am open to learning. I know that that is the only thing that will make me better, my craft shinier.

Have the best day! Today, tomorrow, and forever.
Linda.