The Box of Treasures

Yesterday morning I was searching for an old set of drawing pencils of mine. After combing through the majority of my belongings, I realized that only place that I had not searched was under my bed. Uh-oh!

"Oh, I don't want to look under there," I deeply groaned.  "If I go under there the mess will drive me crazy, then I will have to clean it up, and then I will be late for school.”

Whether I wanted to or not, I knew that I would have to look underneath the bed.  Getting down on my hands and knees, I began to rummage through boxes and bins.  As I searched, I tried to ignore the condition of the place.  In short, it was a complete disaster.  My two roommates (I love them both!) are complete pack rats.  Often my highly organized possessions fall prey to my two messy siblings, which became the same case with the area underneath my bed. I groaned again at the sight. The pack rats had been at it again! The place was an absolute mess.

"I'm not cleaning it up, I'm not cleaning it up..." I determinedly repeated to myself over and over again. 

  Just as I was teetering over the edge of giving into the urge to organize, my hand hit against a large bin.  I had not noticed the box before.  Pulling it into view, I shuddered at the thick layer of grey dust covering the plastic lid.  On the lid, written in my curly handwriting, were the words, "Emily's Writing Stuff".  All at once, I realized what I had come across.  It was a box that hadn't seen daylight for almost three years, not since I had moved to North Carolina.  Quickly, I cracked open the lid and my eyes scanned over the items that I had not seen in a long time.

A pile of letters, nearly every one that I had ever received, lay in one corner.  Next to the letters was a collection of journals, many of them from Barnes & Nobles, which had never been written in.  There was a box of old stamps, containers of ribbons, and scrapbooking glitter.  Best of all, I discovered the nearly complete novel I had written at age fifteen.  It smiled up at me, all one-hundred and forty-four pages of adventure, mystery, and magic.  What wonderful things this box contained!  It was like a treasure chest full of wonderful memories and dreams.

Forgetting entirely about my quest for drawing pencils, I began to make my way through the old novel.  I didn't have time to go through all of it, but the book amused me greatly.  It was badly written, which wasn’t a surprise to me at all.  Entire passages were strange, the spelling and grammar were atrocious, not to mention that the entire construction of the book was flawed. With that said, the little novel made me feel like I was meeting with a younger version of myself.

I know that a book has worth if I can get to know the author through his or her writing.  Half the fun of reading a book is trying to guess what sort of experiences, adventures, or struggles the author has been through in order to write it.  In a sense, I feel as if writing is a beautiful reflection upon a person’s soul. When I finished reading my deeply flawed novel, I felt as if I could taste, see, and smell my life three years ago. That comes to show how powerful written words are.

Most likely, I will write for my entire life without turning out a piece of work worthy of publishing it.  This doesn't bother me at all, like it does some writers.  I live solely for the writing itself, not the distribution of it.  Actually, that is one of the reasons why I created the Leisurely Dilettante. I wanted to be able to write happily, as an amateur writer, without having to feel the pressure of working toward becoming a published author.  As I am a young writer, this suits me just fine.   

The novel, and the box of treasures, have been replaced back under my bed, where they shall remain safe until I discover them again.  Who knows how long it will be until I do read my book again, laugh at its flaws, and smile at my fifteen year old self?  Probably a long time. 

To all writers out there, never ever throw away anything you have written. I am a pack rat in this sense!  When I read through my book, I was glad to realize how much I had improved, in the past three years, as an authoress. You never know what inspiration that your old work will give you.  Mine certainly inspired me. 

By the way, I never did find my pencils. ;)