When I was eight, I read my first Chinese novel. Its title was "A Beautiful Holiday". I remember myself sitting on my bed, reading the entire novel aloud. I was drawn to the decorative adjectives the author used, the moral values and life lessons that made so much sense, and just by how the author miraculously put the story together, like the flow of the river. From then on, I had my first real dream: I wanted to become an author as well. I wanted to draw pictures with words, touch hearts with words, create a whole new world with words, just like how that author let pictures play vividly before my eyes, touched my heart, and allowed me to be lost in the magical world he created. I am fifteen now, and this dream of mine is only growing every second. Now, I love writing more than ever.