How I Learned It At 9 (And How You Can Learn It Too, Even If You Are Over 9)

Behold, the eight delightfully sneaky ways kids unwittingly stumble into the world of creative writing, long before they can spell "craft" without a dictionary. With a mix of sheepishness and pride, I present these clandestine tales of how I got hopelessly addicted to creative writing at the tender age of 9.

As a pint-sized fabulist, I had a knack for weaving tales that would make even Pinocchio blush. After school, I'd regale my nanny with epic sagas of playground dragons and teachers moonlighting as spies. She'd humor me with a twinkle in her eye, asking, "And then what?" It was a masterclass in on-the-spot storytelling—crafting believable twists and consequences faster than you can say "pants on fire." Turns out, fibbing to adults eager for a good yarn is just plotting under pressure with a dash of mischief. Lesson for you: Invent believable escalation and consequences on the fly. Lying to adults who want to be entertained is basically plotting under pressure.

I rewrote the endings of every cartoon. The show always ended too neatly, so I took it upon myself to give every cartoon ending a makeover. Those tidy conclusions? Not on my watch. I'd extend the saga with my toys or in my imagination—making it darker, funnier, or epically over-the-top. Your takeaway: Understand that stories can and should go deeper than the official version. Subversion and emotional stakes start here.

I turned my life into a nature documentary, whispering dramatic commentary as if David Attenborough himself were narrating. Picture this: ants locked in a gladiatorial showdown, or my little brother tackling his cereal with the ferocity of a lion on the hunt. "Behold the mighty predator… and there he goes, striking with unmatched precision!" Your takeaway: Voice, rhythm, and finding drama in the mundane. You learn to make anything sound cinematic.

I turned my toy box into a soap opera of epic proportions. Forget those dull, happy tea parties—my toys faced betrayals, natural disasters, and existential crises that would make Shakespeare proud. Your takeaway: Conflict drives story. Kids instinctively know perfect worlds are dull; they torture dolls to feel something.

I kept dream journals like a tiny psychopath. Woke up and scribbled the weirdest parts before they faded—flying over burning cities, talking cats, falling forever. Your takeaway: Never underestimate surreal imagery, subconscious symbolism, and trusting bizarre details. Appreciate raw creativity before self-censorship kicks in.

I wrote fanfiction… with my neighbor’s dog as the hero. Long, illustrated sagas about the golden retriever next door saving the world. Sent chapters to our neighbor. Your takeaway: Character voice, world-building, and the joy of an audience. Also: commitment to a ridiculous premise.

I eavesdropped like it was my job. Hiding behind couches to catch adult conversations, then replaying the exact cadence and half-said things later. Your takeaway: Natural dialogue, subtext, and how people actually talk when they think no one’s listening.

Age 9 was creative writing’s golden age: no rules, no inner critic, just pure unhinged story instinct. Dragons, talking dogs, volcanoes solving everything—chef’s kiss. Then adulthood arrives and slowly confiscates the magic: “Show, don’t tell.” “Is this derivative?”

Most of us spend the next twenty years reverse-engineering our way back to that fearless, logic-defying weirdness—trying to smuggle tiny pieces of the 9-year-old lunatic past the border patrol of self-doubt.

The actual glow-up isn’t becoming a “serious” writer. It’s staging a jailbreak for the feral gremlin still living in your brainstem—the one who once wrote 22 pages about a sentient Peanut Butter & Jelly Sandwich defeating the Broccoli Empire with the power of friendship and also mayonnaise-based war crimes—and letting her drive again.

Raise your half-dead laptop and toast the tiny sociopath inside you. May she one day escape, kick the inner critic in the shins, and resume production of the weirdest, most glorious nonsense the world has ever been too cowardly to publish.

Free the gremlin. Here’s to breaking her out of creative jail for good!