The Story of a Story Writer

As soon as I learned how to write, the words poured out of my finger tips and onto my construction paper. I piled the pages together and stapled them unevenly. I drew pictures to accompany my words. But the words mattered most to me.

At first I wrote what I knew- I wrote about talking animals because they were all around me, in books, movies, on Sesame Street and Under the Umbrella Tree. I wrote about Steve Urkel and how he liked cheese and was always asking if he did "that". I wrote about my family.

I titled my stories with ease. The Mouse who went to Hawaii. Marty is NOT a Monkey. Pinky's Problem.

I wrote about anything I wanted and I told all the stories I wanted to tell. I wasn't afraid to.

I wrote without caring what anyone else would think. I knew how to make a story with a beginning, middle, and end. Without thinking about the words, I wrote. I didn't know any other way.

As I grew up, I moved from fiction to journaling, from journaling to poetry, from poetry to journaling again to assigned essays to barely writing, except when I needed to.

I went from writing for myself to writing for others and writing for others made me scared of writing. I haven't been telling as many stories and when I try, I stop before the middle.

Here's to getting to the end again.
Here's to telling stories.