Yeah, it’s story time with Hazi!

Woohoo!

—-I’m trying to pump myself up for this, it’s not working.—-

Okay, so I was thinking back to when I started writing, back when I was ten (I thought it was eleven, but no, it was ten), and I remember so clearly why I fell in love with writing.

Story telling has always been apart of my life. Even when I couldn’t read-I would grab a book and tell stories via the pictures-it was how I kept myself calm, and what I did to calm my little brother down.

My life wasn’t great when I was little, my family was disfunctional. My default escape was to daydream. It was how I put myself to sleep, and how I woke up. I could take myself away to places unimaginable, and when I got older, talking to God was my escape.

But when I talked to Him, I would tell stories, because He always felt like a friend.

And I kept this up when I was older.

Now, I didn’t love writing stories from the beginning, I actually hated writing.

Even though my imagination was incredible (as said by my mother), my writing flat out sucked.

Which was amusing, because my love for words put me elgible for a spelling bee (which I turned down because I didn’t like it getting in the way of my volunteering, and church-yeah, I’m a bit of a weirdo, and no, I’m not lying).

So in fifth grade, I had to write a story, and I was fighting the living sugar cookies out of that. That was when one of my online teachers said something that always stuck with me: I want you to write everything that comes to your mind for thirty whole minutes.

So for thirty minutes, I wrote, and there was my story.

After that, it launched an entirely new love-writing.

And from there, it became my escape.

I could get away from the real world, including my eternal dialoug…which was eating me alive.

So by the time I was eleven, whether it was depression, or teenage hormones or just the stress of everything hitting me, I was emotionally struggling.

I didn’t know how to handle myself, mainly because I hated myself, I was my own bully. I couldn’t explain how I felt toward myself, but I needed to express it somehow-thus brining around journaling. It became the only thing that kept me from cracking.

My words came out in that.

Then, I found it slowly entering my stories.

All my pain, and bad emotions, would slowly disappear in my life when I wrote. I would develope with my characters-and my mom saw. When I didn’t write; she knew, and would prompt me to write.

Writing inevitably has been the one thing God has given me that keeps me going.

And I’m happy to say-this was the most confusing post in the world.

When did you write, and does writing have the same effect to you?

Stay Ginchy!

HaziWords

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