One Day Maybe

I have always wanted to be a writer. Not because I thought it would be easy, or because I expected recognition, but because stories have always been the one place where I could breathe. Since childhood, books have been my refuge — their pages both shield and sword, both escape and revelation. And somewhere along the way, I began to dream not just of reading worlds, but of creating them.

When I close my eyes, I imagine my stories spilling out into the hands of children, teenagers, adults — people from all walks of life who might find something in my words that makes them feel less alone. I think of the way Harry Potter gave me wonder and belonging, or how Percy Jackson turned myths into modern sparks of courage. I remember how The Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel made me imagine immortality with both awe and dread, how Life As We Knew It made me understand fragility, how The Maze Runner and Divergent whispered survival and rebellion into the restless part of me, and how Ender’s Game gave me both empathy and loneliness in equal measure.

These books didn’t just entertain — they shaped me. They stitched something permanent into my imagination, into my sense of who I was and who I could be. They were compasses when I felt lost, lanterns when the world seemed unbearably dark. And I think that’s why I want to write: not just to create worlds for myself, but to pass along that same kind of light to someone else, even if it’s only one person.

I don’t fool myself — I know the odds. There are thousands of writers, millions of books, shelves overflowing with dreams that never reached the readers they were meant for. And maybe I will be one of them. Maybe I will write until my hands ache and still be nothing but another forgotten name among countless failed authors. But even then — even in failure — I would still have tried. I would still have left proof that I dreamed, that I created, that I reached for something beyond the ordinary silence of my life.

Because what terrifies me more than failure is the thought of never trying at all. Of letting the stories in my head fade into dust before they ever had a chance to live. Of carrying worlds inside me that no one else will ever walk through, laugh in, cry in, or find themselves in.

So I keep writing, even when doubt crawls in, even when the future feels impossible. I keep dreaming of book series that children will grow up with, that teenagers will pass between each other like secrets, that adults will rediscover years later and feel their hearts pulled back to the magic of their youth. I dream of stories that are messy and honest, that hold both the weight of grief and the spark of hope.

Maybe I’ll never succeed. Maybe no one will ever read a word I write. But still — I would rather be a failed author than someone who never dared to put their worlds into ink. At least then, my silence will have been broken, and my dreams given form, no matter how fleeting.

And perhaps — just perhaps — somewhere out there, one person will find themselves in my words the way I once found myself in Harry’s courage, Percy’s stubbornness, Tris’s rebellion, Thomas’s desperation, Ender’s isolation. If that happens, even once, then it will have been worth it.