Before coming on over to college I was in the midst of the inevitable chore of sorting out the mounds of ‘stuff’ that I had collected through high school. I consider myself to be a fairly organized person, so the shock came when in some obscure and dark corner of a cupboard I stumbled upon the first piece of literary genius I had ever produced. It was cheesier than it seemed to be eight years ago and didn’t make me very proud. But it got me thinking about how I have evolved as a writer and matured as a reader.
Prior to my junior year in high school, the only time I wrote was when I got an assignment in class or when I had some sort of revelation or thought that just had to be jotted down, elaborated and made presentable. I enjoyed these occasional bursts of literary promise. So right out the gates of my sophomore year I created a blog and began posting fairly regularly. What this allowed, was for me to be able to look back on my work and analyze it with a critical frame of mind rather than enjoy it with a nostalgic one.
Concerning my status as a reader, I disliked books as a kid. The ones without pictures were abominations to me. I considered them with a passionate contempt and destructive emotions. After one of my final exams a few years ago however, I was bored and decided to pick up ‘The Alchemist’ which I then proceeded to devour in six hours. It was a moment of revelation and utter surprise. It was also, I imagine, what triggered the development of the reasonably rampant bibliomaniac I see myself as today.
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