It was the start of Year 4, I had just turned 9, and I stood tall (155cm, which wasn’t THAT tall, to be fair.) But I felt like a skyscraper, towering over the rest of the junior school. Year 4 brought on a new sense of superiority, and it was safe to say that I finally felt ‘on top of the world.’

(Whatever that’s supposed to mean for a 9-year-old.)

And academically, I was no different. I was placed in the ‘smart’ class for Guided Reading, which inflated my already humongous ego.

(Which at this point was its own side character,

and the driving force for most of the rash decisions I made in 2015)

Reading was quite a simple task for me, and I was quite the stickler for correct grammar (which I probably got from my grandmother, being an English teacher and all). So naturally, I excelled in all the comprehension and reading tests, placing me in the top part of the cohort. I wasn’t necessarily the best reader, but I considered myself quite the bookworm.If my crammed IKEA bookshelf didn’t indicate that, my iBooks app certainly did (Let’s just say there’s approximately 162 books, and counting).

Of course, being the top class meant we needed to be challenged, and so came along our very first long chapter book: Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone.

Normally, books aren’t that intimidating, but reading 17 whole chapters was terrifying, to say the least. It was very daunting for a 9-year-old, (though my ego convinced me otherwise) and while I was absolutely petrified at the fact that we had to read a book with such… long… chapters… I rose to the challenge, my ego now growing taller than the measly 155cm I was. I was determined to finish the book before the rest of the class.

And this was totally achievable: finish a chapter;

Chapter 1

Mr and Mrs Dursley of Number 4 Privet Drive were proud to say that they were very normal, thank you very much...

and another;

Chapter 5

Harry woke early the next morning. Although he could tell it was daylight, he kept his eyes shut tight…

and then another one;

Chapter 15

Things couldn’t have been worse. Filch took them down to Professor McGonagall’s study on the first floor, where they sat and waited without saying a word to each other…

Until I finally made it to the battle between Professor Quirrell and Harry (Chapter 17, for reference), at which point, the book ended in victory, as they always do. Finishing the book made me feel as smart as Hermione, an unmatched feeling. Satisfaction built inside me, warming my heart, and once again, inflating my ego. (At this point it probably stood at 2 metres tall.)

Throughout my junior school years, I grew to love Guided Reading even more. It wasn’t a hard subject, and I often found I excelled at it. Transitioning into high school English wasn’t particularly difficult either, the Term 1 ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’ assessment task granting me a solid 95%, leading me to believe it was smooth-sailing for the rest of the year.

It wasn’t.

Once we reached Term 2 of Year 7 and our second assessment came along, a ‘terrifying’ new challenge arose: writing.

also known as: my mortal enemy.

I’ve always suffered with creative writing tasks, essays, discursives (this one in particular), basically anything that wasn’t reading. In preparation for most assessments, I would consider myself relatively stressed, in comparison to my peers. The endless thinking, writing, typing, creating that one has to do, all for the exam to boil down to one measly hour of my life was something I was not (and am not) prepared to deal with.

Reading was something simple, it required no thinking, and that’s something young Elena found comfort in. Writing however was a weight, dragging me back to reality, forcing me to face my (rather childish) fears.

(And now I feel my ego has shrunk, to about 3cm tall.)

Reading provided an escape: to Hogwarts, Camp Half-Blood, Malory Towers.

(My bookshelf was a boarding pass,

the books I read, the plane,

allowing me to disassociate from this corporeal world.)

Writing was the source of all my problems, but ironically the thing causing me the most grief allowed me to experience a life past even the most unhinged thoughts of my younger self.

To read means to write, and that was a paradox I had to force myself to face.

(Yes, cliche, I’m aware)

Writing provided me with my only escape from reality, the 20 minutes of reading before bedtime, the life I was able to vicariously experience through Harry, Hermione and Ron.

While I still feel the drag writing places on me now,

(Even now, I attempt to escape from the prospect of writing,

my iPad is set up with Brooklyn 99 on

Netflix as I’m typing this)

To keep reading means to keep writing. I must channel my younger self, my inner Hermione, and build my ego back up to its previous 2 metre stature.

‘All was well.’ - Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows