Ever since I was one or two, I carried a basket of books around the house. I had memorized them and read them constantly.

When I was older, five, maybe, I wrote books in pictures--no words. But it was when I was eight, in second grade, when I actually started to love writing.

It started with a book series called 'Warriors', about cats. I was in love with them, and I started writing a fan fiction, although I hadn't known it was called that at the time.

Soon, when I was nine, I realized something.

I can create books, too.

Not just fan fiction.

Real books.

So I started writing.

If you went into my room, the floor would have papers all over it, writing scribbled across them.

It was messy, and I was overjoyed when I got my Mom's old phone. I got an app (this was before Prose.) called My Writer's Desk. Every single thing I have ever written is in that app--millions of words, thousands of pages, hundreds of chapters. Drafts, poems, stories, dialogue, single sentences.

So my love of writing began.

Just last week, I faced my fears--

I wanted to enroll in creative writing, but you need a B average. I have a C average. The only other way was to get a teacher reccomendation.

In my English teacher's class, I have an incomplete grade for not finishing a massively important essay. I've repeatedly forgotten (or just choose not) to turn things in. Big things. Projects, presentations... The works.

But she's heard me talk to my friends outside of class. She's read the writing I've done in my notebook. She's seen the award I've won. She knows about my girlfriend and knew not to my mom. She's just as much a friend, a role model, as a teacher.

I asked after class--

"Look, so, I kinda... I dunno, my grades arent, uh... Great. But I was wondering if, maybe, I could... If you could consider, if it's okay- I don't mean to give you work or anything-"

God, shut up, me.

"I was thinking about doing the creative writing class next year, maybe..?"

And then:

"Consider it done."

With a C average and only one teacher recommendation, I'm in. I'm in, because she vouched so persuasively for me, that they couldn't help but allow me in-- if not in the way you'd allow a deer into your house to see what it would do. It's really the same. Be terrified, clumsy, wreck shop and look cute.

Either way, I know now that I can write-- and well enough that ome person's opinion of me is so strong as to convince the whole English department.

Thanks, Mrs. Benmhuvar. You helped me prove myself. You're rad.

And now I'm a writer.