20 and fantasy. It wanted to hear about my ideas for mechanical innovations. It wanted a different kind of story. I hid behind my false identity because “Writer” wanted to be kept a secret. “Writer” was scared of everything, especially “Readers.” What happens when they see me? What will they say when they read my bad grammar and half-thought-out words? There is something about me that is scared of being examined too closely. I hate the spotlight in a way that reminds me of how cockroaches flee when the lights are turned on. What was I so scared of? I think I was scared of my hope being taken away from me. I was scared that I would keep peeling back the written pieces of myself until I found that there was nothing but the same pages inside. I was scared to find out that it was me the whole time. I want to think back to that kid—the one with too many hopes— and I want to thank him. He was far braver than I was in many ways. I could pass it off as innocence, but that would be too simple. He is, no matter how much I doubt it, still alive and writing this right now. He is me, and I am him. We both love animals, and we both love telling stories. Even if “Writer” currently looks like “Librarian” or “Scholar,” I’m happy knowing that I have found myself still as a child. And I can’t wait to see how I grow.
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