I was six years old, sitting in the backseat of my mom's maroon Nissan Altima, with my nose and eyebrows scrunched in careful scrutiny. In my best handwriting, I proudly marked the day's date—December 31, 2006—in the top left-hand corner of the first page in my new journal. It was a beautiful book, composed of exactly one hundred wide-ruled sheets of printed paper, featuring a cover emblazoned with a colorful flower motif, and bound by a sturdy white coil. I had never owned a journal before, but the idea of being able to capture, possibly forever, the everyday antics occurring in my small-town world of Knoxville, Tennessee, positively enamored me. To be able to record my most important adventures, to be able to express myself in a manner that was at once safe and vulnerable, and to perhaps even share them with others—“one day,” I would think to myself—was an opportunity I never dreamed of refusing. Even before I could spell the word “write” correctly in context, I was a writer. The old adage about the palest ink being better than the best memory had already taken root in my soul, and I relished the mercies that allowed me to put pen to paper whenever and wherever I desired.
Flash forward a decade or so. This afternoon, while sorting through a box of childhood memorabilia, I found a stack of assorted notebooks about twelve inches thick. Toward the bottom was that old flowered journal, now faded with use and age; the stories within its pages beckoned me into a world of simpler times, a world in which life itself was exciting and new. It was at this moment, reminiscing over first victories, first failures, and first convictions, that I identified that fateful December entry as the beginning of my love affair with the written word.
Unsurprisingly, life has taken many twists and turns since those sacred years of fruit juice boxes and circle rugs: I have lost and gained family members. I have seen treasured friendships fall apart and new ones form. I have skipped two grades of schooling, and I have dealt with both the positive and negative consequences that came as a result. I have sought counseling in my recurring battle against social anxiety and depression and learned that sometimes, beauty truly can come from ashes. This has been reflected in my writing, which has gained an ever-increasing awareness of the risks of living. My dad loves to remind me that the only thing certain in life is change; however, it is in the constants that I find my purpose, my passion, and ultimately myself.
As I have grown older—as I have experienced life in all of its glorious messiness—there has never been a time when I did not write. My favorite book is Little Women by Louisa May Alcott, and it has been since I first read it in fifth grade. Alcott and Jane Austen inspired me to write beautiful narratives that shed some light on the world’s darkness. When my pen first hit the page on that epoch-making New Year’s Eve, it elicited an immutable fascination with the power of language to express, define, and reveal. As the next bend in the road approaches, I know can keep going forth in eager anticipation: I have embarked on a lifelong journey of literary adventure, and nothing can separate me from that. It has long been woven into my very essence.
–Ireland Headrick
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