For a long time I thought I was going to be a writer — I was totally that kid that was still scribbling furiously long after our English teacher said “Time’s up.” And yeah, I was always the first to volunteer to read out loud, too.
But underneath those nerdy layers was a toad-catchin’, dirt-diggin’, fishin’-with-my-dad tomboy. I wasn’t grossed out by blood, and craved horror movies. I swung my dad’s machete in the backyard and hung upside down from rope swings with my brothers.
When I was in the 4th grade my teachers had a nickname for me — Miss Curiosity. I asked a lot of questions, mostly, but I was also an adventurous child that was fascinated by the world.
By the 5th grade I decided I’d like to be a botanist. My mom even humored me with a pet cactus that I constantly touched just to see what it took to get pricked.
I was fearless.
I say was because, inevitably, kids grow up and experience things that mold and shape them into their adult self. Even if the experience is as simple as falling off a bike, listening to punk rock for the first time or someone saying they think you’re cute.
Whatever it was in my case, I lost my fearlessness somewhere along the way. Now I squeal at the sight of the smallest spider, endure nightmares about Alf and have renounced horror movies.
I may not be fearless anymore, but I’m still easily excited and love a good adventure.
Just not the upside-down rope swing kind.
And wouldn’t you know it, I turned out to be a writer afterall.
Just not the pen and paper kind.