I am a writer.
In third grade, I wrote my first story about a tree that grew frogs. In Elementry school, I carried a book and a journal at all times. I played with words more than toys and obsessively recited my newest pieces.
In Junior High, I had bylines in my school paper and was selected by my school to attend a writing convention for young writers.
I had my life figured out. I would double major in Astronomy and Creative Writing at the University of Arizona. Until I realized I could not afford to attend college out of state.
Instead, I went to the local university and switched majors like outfits until I decided on English.
The only creative writing class was taught by a teacher that made us listen to bad jazz and refused to say “bless you” when someone sneezed. What right did he have to bless another?
I was eighteen and a university junior, so used to being a child prodigy that I never realized how much I did not know.
I left school.
I got married at twenty-one and had three children by twenty-four.
My children made me a better version of myself, as I did my best to become who they needed.
I went back to school and studied psychology. During my masters, I learned how to whip out a twenty-page paper during a weekend, but I lost the ability to lose myself in the creative.
The kids have grown, two are now high-school graduates. They no longer need me in the way the once did.
I find the need to write building. It is calling to me like a neglected friend. One that was never gone but was waiting to be heard.
I remember that I am a writer.
