This list may seem a little strange, but it happens to be my Christmas list—when I was eight years old. Now that I come back to it, like the story of my imaginary newspaper, I believe this is more evidence indicating my inherent passion for writing. As most passions go, I’ve sometimes suppressed, ignored and even fought them, but little instances like this list let me know that I’ve been neglecting the most honest part of myself for a very long time. Now it’s time to give myself a chance to creatively and continuously explore.
8 -year -old Ashieda’s Christmas List:
1. Bratz Dolls:
Oh come on, there was some point where every child wanted a doll of some kind. The trend shamelessly focused on dolls with large heads and even larger lips. One doll’s outfit even included various cow-print designs with bright blue leather boots. I was eight and the marketing was excellent.
2. CDs:
Backstreet Boys, ‘N sync, Britney Spears, Christina Aguilera (and many other members of the Mickey Mouse Club.) No one could live in the 90’s and not own one of these CD’s.
3. Lisa Frank Stationary Kit:
There were so many colors—more pens and pencils than I knew what to do with. I loved it. I wanted to write in a different colored pen every day; therefore, I started to write everything from personal notes to my mother’s grocery list just for fun. I wrote my sisters letters to go in their lunches. I wrote to my Grandma who lived far away. I wrote to Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen (they were fine back then). But mostly I started writing to myself—hence the journal.
4. Journal:
To go along with my plethora of writing utensils, I wanted something special to write them in. My own place to try out new words and tell everything to. My place to be sad about losing my best friend or be scared for my sick little sister. My place to be mad at my mother or vent about other eight-year-old, world-ending issues. My place.
5.Where The Sidewalk Ends by Shel Silverstein:
As if the evidence couldn’t get any more ironic. I loved this book and kept checking it out of my school library until my parents finally bought me my own.
I believe on some minor level I understood—as much as an eight year old could—how cathartic writing (and poetry) could be for me, but I never knew it would persist into my passion. As my live history with writing indicates, I’ve only recently gotten better at reading the signs. If anything, I’ve mainly drifted further away from them.
And so, more evidence soon.
