I’m traveling back in blog post time.
After reading a post by a friend, I thought about the question of when I knew I wanted to be a writer. I realized I don’t know the answer.
I remember writing a short story in the fifth grade. I remember writing poems for my grandmother when I was eight. I remember reading everything interesting in the kids section of the public library by the time I was ten and asking my grandmother to check books out for me from the adult section. She would check out anything I wanted. I was allowed to read anything. I remember ignoring teachers and classwork to read books hidden under my desk and navigating the school hallways without looking up from my book. I remember books I would finish and immediately go back to the beginning to read again because I couldn’t stand for the story to end.
When I was little…
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