Who you are and who you believe yourself to be are often two very different things.

I never really fit in. When I visited a school for sports activities (I’m homeschooled) I wasn’t exactly the most popular kid around. Sometimes the kids my age weren't always the nicest. Some of them even snubbed me. I hadn't done anything wrong and I wasn’t mean. In fact I was pretty shy, and a lot of times I still am. I just didn’t fit in.

I still wonder sometimes why I kept going to the school. I mean, I didn’t have to. Plus I wasn’t very good at sports. When Mom said there was something going on I would say yes. Maybe it was in hopes that next time would somehow be different. But it never was.

I went twice a week. After each class I would lose myself in their library of books. That might have been what kept me going. I loved to read, and sometimes the librarian would have to remind me when it was getting near closing time. I never thought that those wasted hours and minutes spent reading were going to play a role in something that was going to shape me and how I saw the world forever.

For a long time I liked to read—but soon that changed. Oh yes, I kept reading; but as I got older I started wanting to write my own stories. One day I grabbed a notebook and pencil, sat down at our kitchen table and let my imagination fly.

My grandmother is a writer and several of her works have been published. I still remember how she spent time going over my work. We used Skype to contact each other, since my family and I live overseas in a small country called the Philippines. My work wasn’t that good, and there were a lot of mistakes. It took a while before my ten-year old attempt at writing and finishing my first official story was readable and started to make sense.

Two years later Mom found out there was a writer’s competition going on and said I should enter my work. When she talked to someone who was a part of organizing the event, he said my story was too long. He told us there was a short story category for my age group that I might be interested in entering.

I decided to try.

Back at home I found a notebook and pen, sat down at my desk and wrote. My wooden desk was painted on the the two small cabinet doors with images that my Mom had printed—two ants, a ladybug and vines that stretched across in swirling designs. She’d put glow in the dark sparkles on top, so when I slept on the top bunk that I still share with my sister, I liked to look down and watch it tease the darkness at nighttime.

Again, when my grandmother looked over my work, there were mistakes. Being a bit of a perfectionist, I was really disappointed. I was still a newbie to the whole writing thing, so I hadn’t realized that having mistakes in your work is just part of being a writer. That’s why it’s an art, and you have to work at it to make it the best it can be—and that takes time.

I tried to hide my frustration as my grandmother went over the story, my story, pointing out the errors I needed to fix. It’s hard taking criticism on something you’ve worked so hard on.

The convention where the writer’s competition was taking place was a good three hours from our home in Davao City. My whole family came—Mom, Dad, my two younger brothers and sister, and a Filipina girl who was a family friend.

The view was gorgeous as we drove. Before the iPod touch was invented, I was using a Nano to keep myself motivated. Dad drove us over a mountain range to get us to our destination—everything was pure green, and every now and then we saw a veiling mist. There wasn’t a town in sight, only a small convenience store in the middle of nowhere where we stopped to use the bathroom and get some snacks and drinks.

When we arrived at the hotel where we would be staying, our room was about the size of my bedroom—maybe smaller. We would be sharing it for at least two or three days while the convention was taking place. It wasn’t the most comfortable situation, but there are families here in the Philippines who live like that every day inside bamboo huts—sometimes with larger families.

Later we went to attend the convention. It was a long wait before the announcer started bellowing out of a microphone the names of the winners from the writing categories. I was seated with my Mom and sister, nervous and excited. Dad and at least one of my younger brothers were somewhere else—it’s hard for little kids to sit still for very long.

I don’t remember everything the announcer said. Only that I was waiting, wanting to hear the outcome of the judges’ decision, yet afraid to. After all our hard work, I was about to find out what had come of it.

When my name was said, I was shocked. I mean, I’d known it was possible I could win; but there were also lots of others who had entered. I wasn’t even a student of the school that was sponsoring it. Mom and my sister were crazy excited. I think they practically pushed me out of my seat so I could go up front to receive my medal.

“You can now say you’re an award winning writer,” my grandmother told me afterward over Skype.

So much has happened since then. I see things differently than I used to, and it shows in my writing. There have been both successful and embarrassing times while I’ve developed as a writer; and I’m still learning. Sometimes you express yourself and people won’t agree. They might even be offended. Or there’s the other end of the scale, where people love it and you get popular. What’s accepted today may be considered old and ‘uncool’ tomorrow.

You just have to be yourself, despite everything that changes. Change is always, it never stops or rests. It never grows tired, whether it comes in soft like raindrops or thunders down on you like a tsunami. That’s why it’s good to decide where you stand while change is calmer and easier to navigate, instead of waiting for something to happen that will throw you up front and demand it from you. Who you are today may evolve into someone weaker or stronger tomorrow. It all depends on how you choose to work with the change that life throws at you.

I’ve had people who love my work. Others don’t care. I’ve won a Silver Key in the annual Scholastic Art and Writing Awards. I’ve also had people ignore my work, not really giving it a chance. But that’s okay. I’d rather be myself and be unpopular that to be something I’m not, balancing on an unsteady structure of what people think about me. If they like my work, great; but if not, then I’m going to keep writing from what’s inside of me.

Every writer has a unique voice, like a thumbprint. It can impact others or hurt them. Writing has influenced the ideas of people, challenging the way we think, whether it be Harriet Beecher Stowe’s ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin’ or Lois Lowry’s ‘The Giver’. Whatever a writer’s style or genre may be, we all have one thing in common—a voice that needs to be expressed.