How I Randomly Wrote a Fictional Novel at the Age of 13
One step at a time makes magic happen
On the first day of class in grade 8, the teacher asked my class to pull out a notepad and start writing.
We asked what we should write. She answered, “Whatever you want. But, every day for this whole school year, you have to try to write a page about something.”
I didn’t know it at the time, but my teacher was brilliant.
After the first day, I enjoyed what I was writing so much that I continued to write about it every day.
By the end of the school year, I had a fictional story with well 40000 words.
I was much more imaginative back then
At what point in our lives does our imagination die?
I believe mine started to die right around the time when I stopped enjoying school. Instead, of listening in class, I started to daydream about girls, money and freedom.
The age of 13 was different though.
Back then, I thought about the most random things, and my novel reflected that.
The novel started with me buying the car of my dreams and driving it around. Eventually, I got an amazing girlfriend too.
Along my adventures, I also made friends with the Loch Ness Monster and explored the world.
My book was composed of everything I wish I could do.
It was a dream put on paper.
Maybe part of why our imaginations disappear is because we stop dreaming about the “impossible”.
Or, maybe, we stop believing our dreams can ever come true at all.
No one could control me
Something has to be said about the fact that in my novel, no one could tell me what to do. I had total freedom.
Funny enough, even with complete freedom, I never did anything bad.
In the novel, I didn’t bring harm to anyone, I helped people willingly.
Making others happy was something I wanted to do.
But, by the end of the novel, my girlfriend was upset I spent so much time with my cars and told me to pick between them and her.
I picked the cars.
My rationale back then was that if someone was going to make me choose between something I love and them, then I would not pick them.
No one who loves me would force me to make that choice.
I’m not sure whether I was wiser back then or just young.
What I do know is that my child-like mind had freedom and when you have a free mind, you don’t want to let anything stop it.
On top of that, when you have the freedom to do what you want, when you want, why would you need to do something that harms someone?
A writing habit I should have kept
I often wonder what would have happened if I continued writing when the school year ended.
My teacher told me we only had to write until the end of the year. Unfortunately, I listened.
Had I continued writing a page or more a day, maybe my book would have been 2000 pages long.
Or better yet, maybe I would have kept my child-like curiosity, imagination and freedom.
The worst-case scenario is that I would be a better writer than I am now.
In school, we are told to write using APA format and constantly correct in ways that force us to write like a robot instead of ourselves.
Meanwhile, most writing courses will teach you to write how you talk. After all, that’s what the best and most concise writers do.
Over time, school made me hate writing. I dreaded it because I was not allowed to be myself.
If I had had this teacher the whole way through, things would have been different.
The habit came back
For completely different reasons, I now have a very similar habit, as most of you probably do.
I make sure to write every day.
Whether that is writing in my journal during the morning and night or writing an article for all of you to read.
It took me over 15 years before I started this habit again, but now that I have, life has improved.
Because of my regular writing, I can think much more clearly.
To write properly, you have to think clearly about what you are writing. Otherwise, it will be awful and make no sense.
Another benefit is that my memory improves.
As I write in my journal every day, I recall what I want to do and what I did do. I go over what I could have done better, what I enjoyed and what hurt me.
This reflection process is immensely helpful.
Conclusion
I know the novel I wrote is hidden somewhere in a box. While I wish I could find it and read it again, sometimes I am happy it’s gone.
If I found it, maybe I would be disappointed because, in my head, I’ve romanticized it a little.
That’s okay though.
Because, by recalling what happened that year the way I do, I have now reinforced a writing habit that will continue to benefit me for the rest of my life.
Thanks for reading