by Crystal Dalison
I write the words to stories, and I throw them away. I do this all day. I write them in my head while I walk to work. I write them in the notebook I keep stashed under the till. I write them on the backs of my comped drink receipts, one sentence at a time, and staple them together for the accountant to find the next day, hoping that my short stories will distract him from the number of drinks I gave away the night before.
I write because I don’t have a choice. I write because I am always in danger of getting lost in my thoughts, but the words form a map of the maze, a map of the story, so I can find my way out. I write because I rarely know what I believe to be true until I’ve written it. I write to express the things I don’t have the courage to share with myself aloud.
It isn’t a hobby, or a talent. It’s a characteristic – an integral part of who I am. If I could hop in a time machine and visit 9-year-old me, I would warn myself: “Hey, kid, now is the time to start getting good at something practical. Put down the Tolkien and do your math homework. Stop frolicking about in the woods like a misanthropic weirdo and go socialize.” Alas, I am what I became, and daydreaming is my forte.
Crystal is a slightly feral, outdoors-oriented, bibliophile seeking a bachelor’s degree. She enjoys adventures, stories, and being wild in the wilds in wild weather. She dislikes concrete, structured environments, and wearing shoes.