I used to think that I could write. It was the original dream of mine. I’ll be a writer, I told my parents. It started somewhere in third grade, maybe. Wrote a story for a picture book,
unofficially, in fifth grade. It was a dream, a maybe goal. Wrote some poetry in sixth grade for a renaissance fair assignment. I was praised, small laudment given. It died somewhere in seventh. A new school and suddenly I knew my thoughts weren’t good enough, not prosaic enough to meter good response. High school, with deadlines and hormone bombardments abounding did nothing to encourage either. My creativity withered. Essays and deadlines dropped all desire from my forays and expression. Still part of me remains in question, odd bursts bubble forth from time to time and I wonder again if my words have any worth. Would I have any readers if sometime, here, I posted a rambling? I quess I shall find out.



One thought on “Today

  1. I have spent most years of my life writing. The only thing I have likely done longer, more consistently is breathe and walk and eat. So I consider myself a writer. A good one? Sometimes. A bad one? Often. A curious one? Always. A lover of words? Absolutely. Brilliant? Seldom. But I write. I love it. And I find comfort in that. 🙂

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