I was 10 years old when I wrote my first story.
Our teacher often gave us assignments to create stories around a theme, and that week, she chose winter.
We were to describe the landscapes, the season’s essence, the way nature shifts when wrapped in frost and silence.
We were to describe the landscapes, the season’s essence, the way nature shifts when wrapped in frost and silence. That afternoon, as soon as I got home, I ate my lunch quickly – my mind already racing with ideas – and then I sat down, pen in hand, and let the story pour out of me.
I wrote about how winter wasn’t just cold – but alive. How the sun kissed the glimmering snow, making it sparkle like a thousand tiny diamonds; how the trees, though bare, weren’t lifeless but simply whispering in their sleep, waiting for spring’s return and how nature, in its quiet stillness, wasn’t dying, but resting, dreaming, renewing itself.
I crafted a world that felt magical to me and I couldn’t wait to read it aloud in class.
The next morning, after mom`s usual persistence to wake me up (it was always so hard for me to wake up early in the morning) I got ready and left for school.
One by one, my classmates read their stories, and then it was my turn.
I stood up, holding the page in front of me and I began to read.
At first, I was aware of my surroundings, my teacher standing near the board, my classmates sitting at their desks, but then… something shifted.
I lost myself in the words.
Time and space faded.
It was no longer just a school assignment.
It was a world and I had stepped into it. I was inside it.
For a brief, enchanted moment, the classroom disappeared.
No rustling of papers.
No movement coming from my colleagues.
Not even the soft steps of my teacher walking between the rows of desks.
Only silence.
Only me and the story.
And when I reached the final line, I lifted my gaze and met the eyes of my teacher.
She looked at me and said:
“Now that is a story indeed.”
And then, something I never expected happened.
My classmates smiled.
Some even clapped.
I walked back to my seat, feeling something I had never felt before.
Not just pride.
Not just happiness.
But the deep knowing that stories were a part of me; that I had rediscovered a part of me I had long forgotten but felt very familiar nevertheless.
And then, something even more magical happened.
The following week, when the teacher asked:
“Who wants to read their stories first?”
A few hands shot up but before anyone could say anything, a few of my classmates called out:
“Cristina! We want to hear Cristina’s story!”
And I smiled, because without realizing it, without planning for it, I had become the girl who writes captivating stories.
I had become the storyteller.
And little did I know, I always would be. Today, just like then, I’m still deeply in love with stories and would always be in the search for one.
Why?
Because I’m naturally drawn to them, to writing and creating them but also because of my deep and firm belief that stories matter; that stories connect people deeply and powerfully, and because stories can help make this world a better place. For this and many more reasons, I’ll always be a strong advocate for stories and will always be writing and creating them.
What do stories mean to you? And do you have a story from your childhood that shaped who you are today? I’d love to hear it! Do share it with me in the comments below!
I’ll talk to you next time!
Fairy blessings,
Cristina
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