Sateria

Join Date: 6/4/2008

General details


  • Sateria


  • Jessica Nicole



In short

  • Close your eyes for a minute. Think back to a time where you could identify your age by holding up a few fingers with one hand. You were only a child; old enough to feed, clothe, and wash yourself. There would be mistakes that would upset your parents; nevertheless, you were able. You were also young enough to long for a kiss from your mother’s lips but at the same time, blush to see her give one to your father. You were sheltered, naïve, and curious, your mind so juvenile that it lacked direction. You were filled with many aspirations, taking on a mentality that you could take on several career choices at once. You dreamed of being a veterinarian, an actor, a teacher, anything that could give the same success your role model had. My ambitions were different on the other hand. Of course there was a time where astronomical engineering caught my eye, but the idea didn’t last as long as my father would have hoped. I wanted to be a writer, one who was well versed in transforming words into a vivid prose mosaic like no other.
     
    The debutantes of my literary calling commenced with short narratives, some on life and others simple fantasy. My mother discovered them while rummaging through a collection of boxes. Being the pack rat she was, those boxes contained miscellaneous items that most would find only trash worthy. As she called me to the living room, her accented voice filled with joy. My feet arrived to a previously bare floor, now strewn with outdated magazines, ear battered books, and aged papers barely a shade from turning brown. I did not have the faintest idea of why her face was beaming. Not until she handed me the typed sheets of “The Day Sally’s Dog ‘Red’ Was Gone” did the nostalgia come. Yes, it was elementary yet I found it to predestine who I was to become and what I was to soon love.

    Months later, I found myself sitting at the desk of my computer, the CPU’s fan fulminating from hot air. The 7th Annual National November Writing Month had arrived and as the prior years, I promised myself to reach the 50,000-word mark by December’s eve deadline. The tips of my fingers tapped furiously on the keyboard, series of paragraphs and dialogues scheming into plot. It was not my initial endeavor to author a novel yet it seemed like a first. Unlike the previous attempts, my mind let out an effusion that had been repressed. This was my catharsis, an outpour of a girl’s emotions threaded with invention. The 30th of November came to past, my promise broken but my esteem being higher than the sun. I had actually begun writing something. It was much more than just pages of anecdotes compounded in anticipation. My novel was no longer a fictional allegory. The Lives of Scarlet Roses was a diary of my hopes and fears, molded into the personalities and experiences of three adolescent girls. It was a dictionary defining my unknown. A day separated from it would bring an obscure emptiness to my insides. My characters were a now part of me, they became my moving essence. Not a moment went by where my mind wasn’t enacting their sayings, doings, and inner workings.

    I decided to take my abilities into the market, scribbling a synopsis that could make an agent fall down at his knees. A request for several chapters arrived in response and my shrieks of excitement and pure elation ran after me as I rushed to exclaim the news. My incomplete manuscript was outside an extremity of where the glass of water could either be half empty or half full. It was a step from being placed in a company that could take me to the place I so dearly wanted to go. I reviewed the document with the intentions of editing. Instead, my keyboard commands only aided me in developing my lines, cannibalizing characters’ spoken exchanges from left to right. I was anything but ready to go as my ideas were not completely locked on paper. I required time to ripen and revise my art. My novel wasn’t clothing, stitched and sewed in order to be placed on a rack for sale. My novel was a bird, a chick nonetheless. One day, she would spread her wings. At present though, she needed time to grow, time to learn, and time to love.

    Now, a year in passing time, my motives have shifted to another sphere. I would not make writing a one hit wonder where publication would be my main drive. Financial gain and noteworthy praise could only bring so much in a world where wealth and eminence has been proved not to always grant happiness. I am not a mathematician or scientist, I was never meant to be ruled by formulas or infinite numbers. I am a historian, a journalist, a diplomat. I live by books, essays, and discourse. Writing is my craft and most of all, it is my life. It is me. As an eight year old gazing on that night star, I have gone further than I would have ever fathomed. A decade past and a decade closer, my life’s emulation transcends beyond the flight of imagination. Blood is thicker than wine but ambition, as I’ve learned, is thicker than both.

My Favorites: Reading and Writing

  • New Moon of The Twilight Saga
  • In the woods, that's if we had any in the city.

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