The Prologue of a Writer

We know of iconic storytellers?developing plot lines that only seize to amaze the world by storm; however, we also individuals who is writing stories that only accumulate dust on her desk because she’s not in the circle of networking with the professionals most people have access to. The amount of rejections becomes more common when someone with a plethora of ideas of stories that need to be heard are suddenly becoming overlooked. We call this girl the outsider, and I, for one, am that girl.?

Rejection is something I have become accustomed to as a means of learning from my previous mistakes and improving so I do not repeat my mishaps; however, there is a limitation I come to a halt on when rejections become more like not connecting with someone because it does not suit their taste in genre. It was back to the writing boar for the next twenty-something draft of the pilot episode to a new series and more caffeine?consumption added to the all-nighters pulled to complete one page full of script material. As a child, I give my greatest appreciation to my younger self because being able to express the feelings and emotions rumbling inside of you is never the easiest task an individual can complete. When you are asked if you are okay and it suddenly becomes a repetitive question, you are on the same boat of the inability to speak up when you feel down. Writing was the only thing I had access to when talking out loud was never an option. Writing how you feel was not limited to the secret hidden diary placed under your pillow where your mother would find the potential I love so-and-so, but it was more of stowed away treasure that was meant to be kept away from everyone because of how special it is. My deepest darkest memories, my lonesome thoughts, and the emotional breakdowns led me to use words to portray the turmoil and sadness I held onto when I was at my lowest. I was melancholy until my stories are living proof of what I’ve heard, the things I have done, the people I have encountered, and the things I saw that transformed my perspective on the world around me all through the craft of writing.?

I was never too fond of reading at some point in time of my childhood because I did not excel at it. School was minority decent although I would have preferred more art classes and less cliche social groups of the adolescence that was considered my peers. What I needed was a way to escape the boring lifestyle of reality in which restricted me from being able to do anything because then again I was only a kid with too big of a dream that blinded me. My mind was corrupted by the typical Disney Channel wishes and the Nickelodeon stardom, but being a Hispanic female with such distinct dreams compared to the lifestyles of your own relatives prevented me from getting anywhere. From the “Mom, can I go to this audition?” to the “Dad, let’s move to California!”, none of these gestures ever fulfilled to their maximum potential. The acting dream died and my reading habits were horrifyingly more common. I guess this is the turning point of my six-year-old self who desired to be more than a child actor, leading into the transition of actor mode to writer’s galore.?

When I pick up a book and question if the words on the pages are worth binge reading for the next three hours or I attempt to figure out why I enjoyed watching Damien Chazelle’s La La Land in a dark room with surround sound greatness influence my wiring capabilities. Words in a book or words on a script climbs mountains to accomplish one thing: engage a reader. Writing is the one skill I was never fond of for a point in time because my former professors believed I was not clear enough or I spoke too much that all they read was gibberish. And so I gave up. And then I got back up and began burning through pencils that scribbled floods of ideas onto paper.?

Eighth grade was my time to shine while I pushed to change my schedule from basic Language Arts to an English Honors class, yet the teacher bluntly stated I was not as talented in writing as my peers nor would I amount to being successful as a writer. What was it that she found to be lacking from the skillsets I already had compared to the skills I needed? I went MIA and pondered wondrously while laying in the middle of the living room floor and staring at the ceiling as if there was a sign, but instead it was a boring, white piece of drywall with no euphoric messages written across the surface to tell me to just keep going.?It was just boredom staring into a ceiling of possibilities.

I am a damsel in distress minus prince charming rushing to the rescue me from a locked away tower. We all do not get the chance to be a princess—or prince—when it comes to achieving something more than writing that first pilot episode or a chapter for a novel, which is why I decided to break my old habits. Read more, write more, and observe my surroundings like hawk in the sky. I always carry a classic black and white composition notebook often found bent in half with a rubber band wrapped around it and at least three different colored pens because inspiration is found everywhere I went. The largest span of inspiration came from the comfort of my very own home because four walls says more behind closed doors than outside of it. The characters I write display different aspects of my personal experiences, yet the external outliers play a significant role during the development of a specific fictional individual the people either admires or truly despises. The conception behind writing is not to gain an income nor is it to try to waste the strict time limits of those in the entertainment industry. I write because I have stories to tell and I tell them because they allow me to write beyond barriers that make bold statements within the entertainment industry. I have one shot to take before I can make the ball into the basket of opportunities.?

The never ending cycle of insomniac has become a ritual rather than a burden. Imagine the setting with me being locked up in the bathroom seated on the floor as a way to gain some sort of “quiet time” with my laptop as my phone is continuously murdered with voicemails and text message threads to check-in on my well-being—I am perfectly fine I suppose if I’m writing while on the bathroom floor. To this very day I still try to figure out how the 3:00 AM written concoction has suddenly evolved into the story I need to tell. It was my conscious writing all along in attempt to write an epilogue. In the end, this is only the prologue.?