A Reason Why I Write: The Beauty Of A Friend

Ah, I should get the worst blogger of the year award for how much I neglect this baby. *Sigh* Honestly, I think about it so much and all the magnificent posts I have planned, but, alas, these ideas never seem to leave my head.

But this one idea has been pounding inside my brain, begging to be exhaled onto a piece of paper.

I have had an insane start to the year. I brought the New Year in with my bestest friend and cousin, toasting to turning fourteen (her) and turning sixteen (me) and being grown up and evil schemes and writing books and starting high school (her) and only having two years left (me) and all sorts of nonsense. Then we preceeded to stay up until-- er, let's just leave it at very late (or, um, early), as my mother reads this blog.

Additionally, I was fortunate to be able to stand for life in Washington, D.C. this January with some of my favorite people in the world from local youth groups. I was blest to go to a Matt Maher concert, who I have postively adored since I was, like, six. He led Eucharistic Adoration (as Catholics, we honor the Body, Blood, Soul, and Divinity of Jesus Christ present during this sacrament) one night and it was seriously one of the most beautiful things I've ever expirienced.

Another absolutely amazing event that took place was my aunt's wedding on February 1st. . .that was incredible. It was an added bonus that I was able to go home to Erie for the wedding! And that I got to hang out with my crazy cousin =)

Oh, and I've had close to fifteen snow days. Which has been incredible because I've accomplished a ton in regaurds to my WIP. But it's absolutely unheard of, from where I've come from. Even one snow day is absolutely unacceptable, though there is easily enough snow in Erie, Pennsylvannia to warrant it, thank you very much.

Fortunately (or unfortunately), though 2014 has been crazy so far, I have had plenty of time to think. And about fifty-percent of the time, when I'm thinking, I'm thinking about Erie. I'm thinking about things I've said and done, about people I've loved and people I've hated-- ahem, disliked. I've thought about things I've written and what made me write them. I've also been thinking about the reasons why I write, as I've been finding it harder and harder to just Sit Down And Write.

And then, through my rememberings and thinkings, BAM, it hit me. Figuratively, of course.

Let me tell you a story.

Once upon a time (ahem, like sevenish years ago), there was a young, impressonable, aspiring writer. . .who still is that way. Anyhow, so I was friends with this other girl who I shared much in common with. Same beliefs, same school (or homeschool program, rather), same grade, and similar interests. Yes, she was a writer too. And our parents were basically best friends, so that's always helpful when two girls are knieveing to hang out.

We didn't see each other as much as we wanted to (maybe once, twice, three times a month), due to a variety of reasons, but everytime we hung out it was like the best day of my life. Not neccessarily when other girls were involved-- you know those friends that are just better one on one? That was us. But when we did hang out, just us, my entire body hurt from smiling and laughing my head off.

And of course, the best part of our friendship was the writing aspect. I can still see her in my mind, sitting on the queen-size bed in our old guest room as I explained to her the latest developement in my plot. I remember laying on her bedroom floor, pouring over her latest draft. She was the Best Writer Ever to me and I was always secretly jealous of how well she could string words together. And her plots were fantastic. After I read parts of her story, I would be in a daze for many hours to come.

My absolute favorite memory with her, though, is the day that I told her I liked to write. Maybe it wasn't that day that I told her, actually, but it was the first day that she had read anything I had every written. She was so impressed (probably much more then the piece deserved) and INSISTED that I read it to her family.

The second best part of going to her house (the first being her, of course) was her family. I don't remember ever being that included and welcomed and loved in a family that I wasn't even related to. I remember sitting at her kitchen table, just talking to her parents.

Anyway, so after dinner, her whole family gathered in their living room (there were at least four kids, at this point-- they now have six, just like us), and I read my story. Not the whole thing (the whole thing never actually ended up being written), it was just a chapter or two. But I finished and they clapped and hugged me and told me what a good writer I was and clapped and hugged some more.

If I live to publish a million books and am on every TV and radio talk show in the world, those events will never come close to that moment, in her dimly lit living room, with her family squished together on the couch, listening intently as I read about Beth Kingston, a 12-year-old who gets transported back to Camelot.

Unfortunately, life has come between me and my first real writing friend. We went to the same high school and ended up in different social circles and didn't talk very much. Life has a way of twisting people and friendships so that they are completely unrecognizable from when we first met, from when we first began. But I greatly regret letting such a valuable friendship slip away so easily.

So, this is a reason why I write. She is.

She was the first person (outside of my family) to tell me I could write. To be interested in where my story was going. To tell me to never give up, to never stop writing. She made me feel special, like I had so much potential. She encouraged me to push on, even on hard days. She told me not to let life get in the way of writing.

My eyes are full of tears as I type this. Some people are just so beautiful, you know? Those little moments spent with some people are what make a life a life, what make it all worthwhile. So I suppose this post is begging to be ended with one of the most common of sentiments: remember the little moments. Don't be lost in the past, but don't be so fixated on the future that you forget to look in the rear-veiw mirror once in a while.

And, though we often find ourselves moving on and being moved on from, let us remember the wise words of L.M. Montgomery, delievered from Anne Shirley: "True friends will always remain together in spirit."