why i write

My first piece of writing came to me when I was three years old. I was in the playhouse that used to sit in my parents backyard, with the sad and unused sandbox underneath. The dog was the only one who ever put his paws in there (we found his toys buried beneath the surface after the snow melted each winter). "Don't touch" my mom would warn from her position in the garden, the sweat from physical labor under the sun darkening her salmon colored tank top. I had a notebook and pencil, and sat up in that play structure with it in my lap, drawing horizontal spiral lines across the page. My first one completed, I went to the next line and repeated the process. It was exhilarating, I was doing what my parents and older sister and grown ups could do! I filled up several pages of that seemingly nonsensical scribble, and it was my writing. Later came diaries, journals, reading Black Beauty in the empty baseball diamond after school (the cover was such a beautiful black, and the title the prettiest of gold lettering!). I wrote through the hard times in my life. They still hurt, but somehow the world I could create with my language helped me to understand that pain would eventually fade, if not end. My best friend called me a bookworm when I didn't want to play outside. I wanted to stay inside and read!! I wanted to write the story of the world! So here I am, majoring in Language, Literature and Writing in college, where I've met so many wonderful and inspiring writers- my professors- whom are what I want to be when I "grow up" if I must. My creative writing minor is the best thing that has happened to be, because for a while I only spent time with Oedipus and Odysseus and wondered what the hell I was going to do with this cannon. I might not know that answer yet, but I don't mind experimenting for now.