not so random thoughts on writing

I have always loved to read. When I was younger, I'd devour any book I could lay my hands on... well, any book I could lay my hands on AND understand the words. I guess from time to time I came across one that I just couldn't comprehend, which would be put aside for later. When I was in 5th grade, I decided I didn't want to read OTHER authors anymore, I wanted to write a story myself. So I set upon the task with all the enthusiasm of a 10 year old and thought of all my future success as an author. I painstakingly bound a basic book of empty pages and drew a squiggly shape that represented the most majestic of horses, well in my mind's eye it was majestic. My story would be one about racing horses, every bit as wonderfully written and admired as The Black Stallion. I was 3 chapters into writing my novel when my evil 14 year old brother got ahold of it. He read it and was laughing so hard by the end that I thought he was going to wet his pants. I was mocked so much for the next few days that I brokenheartedly gave up on my little novel. "You're so stupid- if a racing horse breaks its leg, they shoot it! They don't bandage it up and nurse it back to health. You're so dumb." This criticism has stayed with me for almost 20 years now. I have been scarred so that I'm afraid to write, afraid to let the creative stories bleed out. I still hear the mocking words of a shrimpy teenage boy with braces and gray plastic glasses, tormenting me, killing my dreams, and I know that if I could just turn his voice down or ignore it altogether, I could write short stories. Childrens books maybe. I'd like that. The one thing I can take away from his mocking is this "if you want to write about something, you should learn something about it first". Thank you dear brother. Maybe I'll write about the cruelty of teenage brothers and the lasting effects it has on the psyche!