In the seventh grade, I wrote my first long-form piece: a utopian fiction where a natural disaster conveniently swept all the adults out of the picture and allowed me to populate a post-parent fantasy land with my peers. We foraged for food, crafted weapons, built shelters Island of the Blue Dolphins-style, and even relocated to the beach where I was able to introduce new characters from my class who had been presumed dead. Why? Because it took me months to write this thing and I was crushing on somebody else by then and needed a reason to write them into the story.
It was easier as a teenager to retreat into a world whose boundaries I could write and rewrite, whose conflicts were of my own devising and whose resolutions happily followed a linear narrative. It's easier as an adult, too. There's still joy in controlling a world when I’m writing – or trusting that when I’m not in control I’ll reach a suitable ending.
And at least the most embarrassing things I’ve ever written are behind me.
Hopefully.