“The airplanes soared through the sun-less sky. London rumbled and roared and the ground felt like an earthquake.” Ten years ago, I typed these words into a blank Google Docs screen. Eight-year-old Peyton had just begun her first novel, which is a grandiose title for a project that was written in 16-font Comic Sans. My mom watched an introverted and slightly pretentious child wasting her afternoon away on the computer. But in my mind, I perched in an isolated mountain home, with only the echo of my scholarly, experienced thoughts. My legions of fans were miles away, reading my bestsellers and pondering my world views.  
      Eventually, I placed a 250-page manuscript into the intrigued hands of my teacher. For my debut, I emulated the historical fiction novels that stacked my bookshelves. In retrospect, the title “historical” is a tad loose. Turns out, elementary schoolers don’t know nearly as much about war as they think they do. Within the first chapter, tragedies spilled across the page: a vanished mother, a banished religion, and three famished children, all set in a century far removed from my scope of understanding. Adult topics were mixed in a blender, and the resulting smoothie had an overwhelming array of flavor. A year’s worth of my thoughts and half-baked commentary, all wrapped together in this thing called “fiction.” 
      But what is fiction? Oxford Dictionary describes fiction as stories “that describe imaginary events or people.”  Is it non-tangible, a constructed fantasy that has no anchor to the author’s reality? I believe that true fiction doesn’t exist. Sure, it’s a good label to avoid getting publicly vilified for historical inaccuracies. However, there’s a flaw in Oxford’s definition. All works of “fiction” describe very real, non-imaginary people. Of course, Sylvia and Jacob and Tyler exist by themselves only in the realm of my creativity. But Sylvia is just an alias, and her face is a mask. Beneath Sylvia, beneath Jacob, beneath Tyler, there is only one person: me. These characters are no more than my mind speaking in three different tongues. They were born from an eight-year-old’s thoughts on very real topics: war, family, loss, redemption. Tyler was a vessel for my opinion on the inherent goodness of humanity. He consists of a collection of experiences that shaped my perspective. In that case, how is Tyler a description of anything imaginary? 
      A wide assortment of similar novels still lies within my hard drive. Despite the avid writer I was, there is one thing that cannot be found within those archives: a diary. However, I’ve come to a realization. I may not have a daily recollection of what recess games I amused myself with in third grade. In that sense, I never wrote a diary. But when I read pages upon pages of elaborate worlds that I created, there is something rather autobiographical about it. I can hear my squeaky, younger self in every word. Her voice tells me how she thinks about the world, what’s important to her, and how she interacts with those around her. It may be less straightforward, but these stories are a diary all the same. Like a capsule frozen in time, each story is a snapshot of a moment in my life.  
      Today, my mom still watches me hunch over a computer on days I should be outside. These stories I write have grown with me, as my perspective changes with more life lived. But one thing is different. I no longer picture myself as a middle-aged author, basking in my own complexity. My writing is only the product of myself, no matter how sophisticated or experienced I try to appear. I may not have legions of global fans, but I know I’ll have at least one: 28-year-old Peyton reading the novel I write today.