Stories of others, words of my own.
I never really liked English class. I couldn’t stay on topic for five pages, working through expository and persuasive essays on Tom Sawyer or The Gilded Age, as interesting as they can be. That said, there wasn’t enough elbow room in math or physics — don’t even get me started on stoichiometry. I kept getting As in classes, because that’s pretty much the only option when both of your parents are teachers. It wasn’t until I failed a couple AP English essays that I realized I needed to keep playing with words.
You see, when I was a kid, I’d often say “I was going off into my own world” because A. I had undiagnosed ADHD and needed to just be weird sometimes. And B. because I wanted to tell stories in my head. Back then (and still a little bit now), they were mostly dreams of becoming a Jedi or getting my letter from Hogwarts. Essentially, they were inspired by things I experienced. My writing grew from that. Rather than fighting off stormtroopers, now I write about enterprising musicians, expiring subcultures and burgeoning movements. My fantasy lands have been replaced by reality, something I find much more interesting.