I sat at the desk where I made the decision to carve out a career in creative writing. As I swiped the palm of my right hand across the wooden surface smeared with scribbles and heat stains, I remembered the comfort I felt immersing myself in plenty of fairytales and romance novels. I shook my head mildly, with a smile, as I thought of the reasons I had chosen that path. I believed I could create happiness for readers, even though I thought I didn’t have the talent to become a good writer.
Thanks to Walt Disney, his princesses sparked my desire to write. During my pre-teen years, I would sit at my desk after school and the weekend evenings and throw myself into the world of Disney princesses. Their happiness, joy, and comfort were my drugs, giving me the emotional escape I constantly desired from my lonely world of being the only girl among three boys in the house.
I was also mesmerized by their world of lavish scenes, beautiful romance, and happily-ever-afters. Oh, I loved the way Cinderella, Snow White, Aurora, Ariel, Belle, Jasmine, and Mulan would dance, speak, and behave so gracefully, politely, and sweetly. No longer did I want to restrict myself to the princesses in the books. I craved to create some of my own and share them with the world. About a week later, my journal welcomed my first princess. I called her Mukai, an African name that meant “the beautiful one.” She was fierce like Mulan, sweet-tempered like Snow White, and the belle of the kingdom like Cinderella. A few days later, Mukai was joined by another princess called Amanirena, a bold girl like Mulan who was determined to save her people.
I bloomed with joy and happiness knowing that I had created princesses like those I had seen in Disney stories. It was the first time I realized that I didn’t just want to experience stories; I wanted to create them. When Ms. Colton, my English teacher, asked me to share my princesses with her, I was over the moon, beaming with pride and happiness.
I hadn’t realized that request would lead to an unexpected encounter. I stood before her at the teacher’s desk, watching her face twist into a disappointed grimace as her eyes darted across the page. My heart thundered. Maybe my princesses hadn’t caught her interest, I told myself suppressing the disappointment rising within me.
“What’s this?” she blurted. I stuttered, shaken by the outburst. “I-I-I—” She cut me off. “This is awful,” she said sharply. “You will never be a writer.”
Her words slapped me. I clenched my hands, swallowed my anger, and returned to my desk. I lowered my head, trying to hide the tears threatening to fall. Maybe, she had finally said the truth that I had kept denying. Her words were easy to believe because I hadn’t received a passing grade in English. Perhaps my girls were awful, but to me, they were my little world, and I adored them. I swallowed again and clenched my hands as I accepted the truth: maybe I wasn’t blessed with the talent for exceptional writing.
That evening, I let the tears flowed freely from my eyes as I ripped apart the journal, killing my little princesses. When I was done, I neatly packed away the Disney princess books I had stacked on my desk, placed them in a box, and stored them among the piles of trash in the storage room. I was done with writing, and I didn’t want to see those books and be reminded that I wasn’t a good writer.
My dream was gone, along with my girls and the excitement I once felt about writing. I spent the rest of my high school days not caring about writing. By the time I graduated, my desire had vanished.
About a year later, the second sequence of Madagascar came out. The dramatic progression of the storyline, the beauty of the characters, the cinematic music and the emotional tension that made me cry, laugh and even shouted at times reignited the passion I had during the time of the Disney princesses. After watching the way those animated characters blended with each other, danced and supported one another, my eyes shed tears. For the first time, I felt disappointed giving up my princesses and my writing. That night, when I walked out the theater, I was eager to revive my princess and return to my writing dream.
But, the coming days, I struggled to make the decision to get back into writing because Ms. Colton bitter words cut through my consciousness again. For about a week, I was waging an internal battle between my desire and the doubt which arouse from her remarks. When her words were about to overpower my decision, I spotted a notebook atop a pile of textbooks in my room. Curious of its contents, I took it up, opened it, and the first words greeted me were ‘Your dreams are big, let them happen’. I thought about those words, and how my writing dream was big but I had allowed few words to make me feel inadequate to write.
It finally clicked. I could do it. I could be an exceptional writer, make my dream come alive and make it big. A new sense of motivation overwhelmed me. I was ready to take on the new milestone on becoming a writer and resurrecting my princess. I believe the world should hear about my princess and I would make it happen, even though my writing wasn’t exceptional.
So, one evening, I sat at my desk and searched the internet for a writing course on the Apple laptop my parents gifted me after I had put the books away. I came across the Writers Bureau. I was skeptical at first because I had never taken a long-distance course and wasn’t sure how effective it would be. But after reading about its features and benefits, I put aside my doubts and made the purchase.
I smiled because I was about to begin the childhood dream of becoming a creative writer. But when the first assignment arrived, my heart sank. I was required to complete an assignment using proper syntax and grammar. What was syntax? I was terrified because it was the first time I had heard the word. I was convinced I wasn’t going to excel.
I almost gave up, but I persevered after remembering my princesses. I pushed on with the assignment and sent it away. My mind was filled with doubt and insecurity. But, to my surprise, the assignment came back with a good grade. I screamed with joy and even treated myself to an ice cream. I was pumped up and determined to complete all the other assignments, which I finished with the help of dedication, tutors and researches.
When my diploma arrived, I beamed with pride for days and proudly hung it on the wall. I had accomplished what I had once been told could not happen. I had overcome what I thought I could never become: a writer.
Looking back, I appreciated how the journey had helped me discover other reasons writing had become important to me. I had entered the course with the simple desire to resurrect my princesses. But as I matured through the course, I began to appreciate how writing was helping me build my imagination and share my ideas with an audience. I also began to see it as something I could build a career around, earn an income from, expand my knowledge through, and perhaps even build a successful business around. More importantly, writing gave me a sense of satisfaction that I hadn’t found anywhere else.
Recalling the writing journey reminded me that dedication, self-determination, and confidence were essential to becoming a writer. A lack of confidence and motivation once led me to bury my princesses, but confidence and perseverance eventually gave me the courage to resurrect them. I promised myself that I would remain confident and bold in the face of confusion, rejections, and disappointments so that I could keep my princesses alive.