Boy, my new computer was awesome! I ran my palm across its dark red body and rapidly pushed each of the perfectly-squared, black keys. Something about my fingers brushing their smooth surface caused all my worries to wash away.

Is writing really this powerful? I thought to myself. It was either that or the rays of the moon shimmering through my blinds causing my sense of peace. I knew I had school at 8:00am, and it was already 12:00am, but heck. I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to write, write, and write. I never knew an 8th grade talent show could cause such a change in demeanor.

Slam!

“Catherine Victoria Christie! Just what on Earth are you doing?”

Snap! Caught again!

Mom placed her hands on her hips. She narrowed her light brown eyebrows and gave me the “evil death glare”. When a Southern mom showed that off, it was all too clear someone was in trouble.

I quickly shut my computer screen and propped up my head. “Uh… nothing?” was my answer.

“You’re writing again, aren’t you?” Mom stormed into my room like an angry grandma. She scooped up my laptop and tucked it under her arm.

Embarrassment burned my face. Lava trickled down my temples, leaving me with 4th degree burns.

“You need to stop this,” Mom growled. “This is the third time I’ve caught you up past your bedtime writing. This time, you’re not getting this computer back for a month.”

A month? My own eyebrows narrowed, as I found the words to fight back: “You can’t stop me from writing, Mom.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Mom snapped. “Now go to sleep.” She’s too mad to kiss me goodnight (not that a fourteen-year-old needs that anymore).

Mom left me alone in my room and slammed the door behind her.

I growled, “You can’t stop me from writing.” That 8th grade show proved it was my past, present, and future. 9th grade did not mean I needed to quit my passion. I was a bad girl, but I refused to fall for my parents’ trap.

I waited until I was sure Mom was asleep. I didn’t have to worry about my younger brother, Timothy (he was off to the Governor’s School), or my older brother, Matthew, since he had been out of college for a year now.

Slowly, I opened my door and peered down the dark, ghost-ridden hallway of the Christie household. My feet made not a sound, as I approached the door to the basement. I had to be careful not to fall down the stairs.

On my way down, something clicked in my mind. It was a new story idea.

I thought about the mermaid tail I had when I was young and how I always dreamt of becoming one. I even went as far as reading those so-called “How to Become a Mermaid” websites. I wondered, while most mermaids were female, what if there was a male one (a different kind of merman)? Oh, ho, Victoria! Now we’re talking!

Excitement bubbled through my weary body, as I finished my trek down the stairs. I didn’t care about boys, like a good fourteen-year-old should. All I cared about was my writing.

There was my collection of notebooks. Mom buried them under the desk that was propped up against the basement’s wall closest to the staircase. Sawdust tickled my nostrils, since Dad left his workshop open, and I sneezed.

I pulled my box of notebooks out from under the desk and freed my newest one. It was teal. Now, what should the new story be called? I sat there pondering the idea for a good hour. It was cold in the basement, which told me the Christie family ghost, Mr. Van Vic, was present. A dead man. What was it like to be dead? What if, in my story, the merman’s parents were dead?

I had a better idea. My mind moved over to another one of my favorite childhood shows, Winx Club. Bloom, Stella, Aisha, Musa, Flora, and Tecna went through a series of transformations. One of them was mermaid-based called Sirenix. What if I did something like that? The merman could start off as a fairy and then eventually earn his tail? What if… OMG! What if he was a male siren?

I had the perfect name for the story… Metamorphosis. It wasn’t super original, but it fit it perfectly.

My hands rummaged around for a pen. I found one on top of the desk. The ink was blue with sparkles, my favorite color. For a good while, I sat in the basement, writing down the basic idea for Metamorphosis.

How on Earth did I come up with such a creative plot? Like a high-powered toilet that stripped someone of their clothes, the ideas stripped my brain of its cells. Combining mermaids and fairies, to create a Metamorphic Fairy for the story, was one of my best brainstorms yet!

“Hold on,” I asked myself a few months later, “did I seriously write 128 pages of Metamorphosis in my notebook?” I sure did. By that point, I couldn’t remember why I started Metamorphosis in the first place. The world of a writer was definitely a confusing one—one full of surprises.

“Why are you still writing?” Mom and Dad asked me one day during breakfast, their eyes fixed on my Metamorphosis-filled notebook. “You know you’re not going to go anywhere with it, right?”

So? I could care less about that. Writing was merely a hobby, but Metamorphosis was officially my favorite story yet.

Scoffing quietly, I answered my parents’ question: “I’m writing because I can.”

They said nothing else after that.