Emilino Emloile’s love for writing:
I love to write. A long time ago, when I was too little to write complete sentences and spent time in school learning the alphabet, I kept a small Winnie the Pooh notebook. In this notebook, I scribbled page after page of complete nonsense – wobbly lines and repeats of whatever letter I could think of. It was the idea that counted; I loved the feel of putting my pen to paper and “writing.” I dragged my Winnie the Pooh notebook around with me and busied myself with imitating cursive as best I could. My mom wrote with cursive. My grandma wrote with cursive. Lots of grown-ups wrote with cursive handwriting, and because it looked so pretty, I tried to write with cursive, too. I bounced my pen across the page with ink-stained fingertips, adding elegant loops here and there for emphasis. I had no idea why there were loops or why people wrote with cursive or how, even, to read cursive, but I tried it anyway because I liked the idea of writing something of my own, something I could return to, something I could add to.
My love of writing stories began in fifth grade. Before that, it seemed I was no good at writing at all. But my first writing assignment of fifth grade proved this idea to be wrong. Suddenly, I could write; suddenly, words flowed from my fingers like something natural, something sweet. It was the closest I’ve gotten, perhaps, to love at first sight. After that, I didn’t stop writing. It was a way to pour my beating heart onto paper. My imagination came alive into so many stories, so many people, so many more hearts than mine. I fell in love with my creations; I breathed life into them and pumped blood through their veins, and oh, the love was strong. The love was intoxicating. I thought about my characters at night as I fell asleep; I dreamed of my characters as I slept; my characters followed me throughout my days. They were me, in some sense, in disguise. Those lives were mine. When I combined my heart, imagination, pen and paper, they were what came alive.
Now, I write every day. I can’t go to sleep if I haven’t written down my thoughts and my memories and my dreams. Days, so often, seem to be overlooked. Each day is a time in a life; each day is a chance; each day is a lifetime. I must, I must, record those chances and those lifetimes. They make up who I am. Sometimes I stay up late because I am writing. I argue with my mother. “You need sleep,” my mom tells me. “I have to write,” I tell her, but can she see? She doesn’t write with a passion like mine. Perhaps I should get more sleep. Perhaps I should put down my pen and my journal and save the thoughts for later. But there is something about those thoughts; they are so raw, so alive, so full of life, and yet they are so forgettable. When they float around in my mind, they drift into my subconscious and they go to a place of no return. Quick, I think to myself, I have to trap them before they can escape. I have to grasp them and put them onto paper, or else I won’t remember.
Life is too fragile to forget. Life is too meaningful to let adrift. Quick, I tell the world, you have to trap it before it can escape.