Rambling Thoughts As A New Adventure Begins.

My earliest memory of writing a story was the one I wrote when I was five. I didn't any friends, the kids I wanted to be friends with didn't like me much. I was odd, I was different. So the first time I wrote a story, I wrote about a snowman who liked me, who wanted to be my friend. He went around to other kids, telling them that I was nice, really.

When you noticeably stand out, it can be hard fitting in. I was the only black kid at school for my whole school career. Other black kids came and quickly transferred to other schools.

I latched one to people as I grew older. Other kids, the wrong kids. I got into relationships as an adult because I didn't want to be lonely. If someone said they liked me, well, that was rare, I had to date them. It never occurred to me that I had other choices. That I didn't have to settle for whoever said they liked me, just because I was so desperate to be liked.

Another stand out memory from my early childhood is of me, paintbrush in hand, refusing to let the other kids come near me. No, I don't want to paint with you. No, I don't want to share the paint with you and no, I am not going to explain why I painted this picture. You don't understand my creativity? Too bad for you, go hang out with someone more on your level.

The fact that I stood out, scared me but also gave me something to cling to. Yes, I'm smarter than you. Yes, I know I came top of the class again. Yes, I would love more homework and less playtime so I can write study.

A paradox has always existed within me. One side, I walked around school with an arrogance that probably upset the other kids and the need to be liked by everyone.

I grew up not knowing who my father was. I knew of him. My mother was wonderful. She never bad mouthed him or tried to suggest that I shouldn't want to have him in my life. When I finally got to meet him, she supported it. Not knowing that side of my family as always made me insecure about my place in the world. Sure, I'm black, but was does that mean? My mother, for the record, is white. So is her side of the family - the side that I grew up with. Living in an all-white neighbourhood, I felt discounted from black culture and black people. I still feel that divide. It's easier now, thanks to the internet. Easier, but not easy.

Writing saved my life. More than once. Whenever life stops making sense, I write. I can create, mould, and shape worlds. I can write about the kind of person I am, that's like to be, and the kind of people I like to be around.

As I experience more of life, my writing has changed. I look back at the hopefulness of my childhood self, just wanting to be liked but needing the world to know that, hey, I'm here, I'm special and one day, I'm going to make all my dreams come true.

Teenage me was moodier, darker. Angry. I had lost my grandmother, the few friends I had managed to find had moved away and the one friend I was pinning my hopes on, was stealing from my family and would eventually, join a gang.

In my twenties, I became more embittered. I trusted no one and was learning to cope with a new reality of having a mental illness.

At every step of the way, I had words. I could pick up and pen and notebook and tell myself a story. It didn't need to be perfect or make sense. I didn't need perfect prose. or skill, or a goal. Writing was a hobby, not a job and I was never going to be good enough to get published anyway.

Two people disagreed with me. My mother and my grandfather. My mother has long been my personal cheerleader. She encouraged my love of reading, spent whatever , money she had on making sure I had pens and pencils and paper to write with.

My grandfather would patiently read anything I shoved under his nose to read. He was the first person who got to see my messy first drafts. Nodded when I explained that I liked writing men kissing each other and no, that didn't mean I was gay. (Oh young me, the denial was strong).

Even if he didn't understand my stories, he supported them. He always asked why I hadn't tried to publish (I told him all about a story I had written at school way back in 1999 and from that moment on, he thought I deserved to be published). He would tell me how talented I was, how proud he was. I never listened. He was family, he was supposed to say stuff like that.

My grandfather was 91 when he passed. I miss him every single day and now, I sit, incredibly, staring at a book cover that has my name on it.

Through my writing, I have made friends, real friends. People who share the same love of words that I do and who actually seem to like me, for me. This is a strange, baffling new world.

I don't quote now how or why, but I know, there is a reason we're friends. A reason it took this long for me to feel stable like the ground is underneath my feet for a change and I have control of what I'm doing and where I'm going.

Most amazingly of all, these amazing, brilliant, incredibly gifted people are working so hard on putting together the most amazing anthology. One that I feel blessed to be apart of.

By this time tomorrow, the pre-orders for the anthology will have gone live and the tireless work of doing final edits will begin. It's exciting, it's wonderful and I am scared and sad and I wrote all this just stop myself from crying.

I don't know where I fall on the question of 'is there a God?' Is it wrong to say, I want there to be? I hope that I get to see everyone that I love who passes. I want hugs from my grandparents again.

Most of all, I want to walk up to my grandfather say, "I did it. I finally got a book out."

I don't know where this journey is going to take me. The adventures, mistakes, missteps that await me.

I do, however, know that I could not be doing this with a better group of people.

To quote Disney, "A dream is a wish your heart makes" and no one should ever give up on their dreams. Look at me, mine are coming true.

Sometimes, the best things in life are worth waiting for.

 - Z. Hope.