“I had the lonely child’s habit of making up stories and holding conversations with imaginary persons” – George Orwell – I found this quote accidentally, while checking out someone’s profile and blog but it triggered a lot of memories from my childhood.

Well, I have to admit I didn’t know it was a habit, but I’m sure glad I am not alone! I was never a lonely child if that means not being around other children that much, but I was very lonely in the hours I spent home alone while my parents were at work and I was really lonely during the two hours nap (kindergarten) when I really couldn’t sleep. So I was talking to all these made up characters, but I never believed they were real. I was just creating someone to talk to, although I was just talking to myself out loud, mostly because even as a child I had problems shutting up for more than five minutes.

Later, I started writing. I tried poetry but realized almost instantly that it really wasn’t my cup of tea (read “I wasn’t that good” here) and that I was more attracted to novels and short stories. I started a lot of novels but only finished one (and when that was finished I decided it wasn’t good enough). What I finished were essays and sketches to be used later. But everything I ever wrote had been read by a few persons. Friends and class mates mostly, but I did get used to a certain audience for what I was saying. I always needed people to tell me what they thought of my “works” as I always felt I wasn’t writing just to please myself (this might explain the great pleasure comments give me).

Most of the feedback I had was encouraging. But if someone said what I had written was no good, I’d be very sad. Especially if that person were someone important to me. What seems so strange to me is that I never gave anything of what I wrote to my mom. I don’t know why, maybe because I was so convinced she had no time for that and would consider it crap. I was probably wrong.

My best period as a writer was in high-school (the first three years). I still remember all the nights I spent in my little “office” (my step father – may he rest in peace – transformed one of the rooms in a so called office – I had my desk and my books there, and of course a lot of posters and pictures and it was the Kayla work area) reading and writing and having a huge debate going on in my mind (Was I a genius or not?) and the radio playing…I miss those nights and the self imposed solitude I enjoyed so much. Actually these were the only times I didn’t need to talk – I was creating characters that were talking to each other.

During high-school, I always carried the book I was reading everywhere. Any train ride, any less important class, any time spent alone was a good time to read (don’t get me wrong, I did spend enormous amounts of time watching TV and with my friends, I wasn’t always reading). Back then I was a walking enigma – being one of the best students and having so much fun. I guess I owe that to my beloved brain that always required very little time to learn. I still have a book with me, most of the times, not always, but I don’t use all the time I could be using to read it. And my brain is half-dead at the moment because it hasn’t been used that much.

As I stopped writing, the only remotely resembling experience is composing posts for the blog. A very different experience, fulfilling in its own way, but I do miss my novels and my characters so much! It was the world I created and controlled, my very own playground where my rules always applied. Maybe I’ll get back to writing one day!