When I was a little girl, I’d press my hand against my bedroom window and peer into the sky. As the sun went down, I’d watch the stars pop out one by one like tiny dancing fairies and wait patiently for Peter Pan to fly me away to Never Land. I believed in him just like I believed that tomorrow would come. And it did. Again and again. Maybe I thought he could wish away my troubles by sprinkling fairy dust and taking me along his awfully big adventures. Months went by and still no Peter Pan. Sometimes my curtains would flutter and I’d dash to my window with a racing heart, but as I gazed around, I realized it was just the wind.
As I waited by my window, I grabbed a notebook and a pencil and began drawing pictures of unicorns, dragons, and fairies amongst other creatures. Soon the notebook was filled with these nameless characters. With ease, I gave each of them a name as well as their own short story, all the while waiting for a boy in tights who never showed up. I filled out notebook after notebook with characters and stories, later to realize that I was writing a book. By the time I was thirteen years old, I had written my first novel.
I created magic of my own through the power of my mind and a pencil in my hand. I flew to my own Never Land and braved through my own awfully big adventures. Even if those adventures ended each time I set the pencil down, those precious hours of writing taught me the importance of believing in myself.
Now, as a twenty-nine-year old mother and wife, I look into the night sky with a thankful heart knowing my adventures will never end.