Writer

The day a stolen notebook made me believe I could be one.

Image generated by AI

“No guys, seriously, Savannah’s a writer.”

Wait, what?

This comment came from a classmate, Aja, who I didn’t usually get along with, in my sophomore year of high school. On this particular day, she’d stolen the notebook I was writing my latest novel in during gym and refused to give it back. She’d been reading it in Honors History and Lit after finishing our assignment and when her friends asked her what it was, she’d given them a brief synopsis.

My cheeks burned, my palms were slick, and I thought I was going to die of embarrassment.

I’d never let anyone I knew read anything I’d written. Anything I published online was under a pseudonym. I couldn’t bear the thought of ridicule from other kids, I’d gotten enough of it for other reasons.

By high school, I was filling notebooks faster than I could replace them. I carried them everywhere in case inspiration struck.

But there I was, gripping the sides of my desk and wanting to shrink into nothingness as this girl I was certain usually disliked me was pouring over an unfinished draft, and she’d actually…

Complimented it?

“I don’t even like to read, but guys you have to read this, it’s so good!” She insisted, tilting the notebook toward the girl next to her.

Her friends then leaned over their desks to read over her shoulder and my chest seized even tighter, making breathing increasingly more difficult.

Great, now more ruthless 15-year-olds were consuming pages of my inner world never intended for public scrutiny.

But there was also a strange…lightness in my heart.

If my words could reach someone who didn’t even read…

Maybe I wasn’t as bad as I feared. Maybe aspiring to do this professionally wasn’t so insane.

Mrs. Mundy, my favorite teacher, glanced up from her desk, winked at me, and gave me a small smile before calling to Aja, “When you’re done, give that back to her. I don’t believe she’s finished yet.”

I blinked.

It never occurred to me that she’d seen me scribbling during class. I’d always finished our assignments early and would spend the majority of class reading or writing. But there were at least 13 other kids there. I wasn’t conceited enough to think she’d noticed me.

Aja did give that notebook back later, and insisted I email her the rest when I was done since she was moving soon. I don’t remember if I did.

But, for the very first time, I thought…

If she liked it… maybe other kids would, too. Maybe I could start sharing my work with people I know.

I watched her walk back down the hall and turned the worn notebook over in my hands, flipping the pages open for a minute.

Writer.

A gentle warmth bloomed in my chest and I smiled, tucking it in my backpack and closing my locker.

Inspiration really does come from the unlikeliest of places.