An Attempt at Being Creative

I used to be a creative writer. I used to have notebooks full of my stories. I would take those notebooks and a contingent of pens with me wherever I went. I wanted to write a novel. Then I got into high school, and I got busy. Busier than I had ever been. I got into choir and drama and suddenly writing wasn't as important anymore. Then I went to college and the only time I wrote anything creatively was when it was required for a class.

But I want to change that. I want to write again. I've wanted to for a long time, but I just haven't gotten around to it. In all honesty, I'm not sure how much time I'll actually devote to it this time around, but I want to give it a shot. So I'm going to start doing some writing exercises, and I welcome any and all criticism.

I got this prompt from oneword.com, which gives one word (hence the name) and gives 60 seconds to just write whatever comes to mind. So here goes.

Bookshelf

It was bowing. I could see it—pulled down by the weight of the words, the pages, the binding. Books on top of books shoved behind books, a maze of ideas and concepts. New people and familiar places. Worlds I entered as a guest and exited as a true friend. This was my life, chronicled and complied and organized by author name. Some sections are frayed, the stitches pulling apart from the strain of opening and closing time after time. Other sections are pristine, lacking dents and folds and scrapes. Lacking character. Lacking love. Yet they sit there still—taking up precious shelf space simply by virtue of their being books. Books. That's what it's all about. My kaleidescope of interests staring me in the face day in and day out. I hold entire universes on those shelves. Universes that make up my own universe. My own world. My own home.