The local paper published a poem I wrote when I was seven years old. I still remember it. And no, I will never repeat it. All I can say is it must have been the only time in our history when absolutely nothing newsworthy happened, so they had room.
I started writing in earnest when I was eleven, and by thirteen, my favorite protagonist was traveling the universe, engaging in lengthy conversations with creatures from other planets. The story stalled somewhere in the fifth chapter, mostly because I had run out of things for my characters to talk about. The upside: I got a head start on learning how to write dialogue.
I’ve written ever since, mostly in the closet. My son begs me not to destroy years of journals, but there is a large bonfire in my future. No one should have to endure those things. I keep them strictly for reference and the occasional poem I can stomp all over to make it better.
More years were spent writing work – related, point papers. Good training for learning to write succinctly. Honest. Then there was a fund raising job, which required extensive creation of grants and speeches. And an occasional letter to the editor when I just couldn’t help myself.
So here I am at last, learning to say what I want in a voice that is really mine. I have goals that include a guitar and song-writing. But for now, I am involved with a reprobate called Daddy Jim. Stories keep bubbling up and I keep putting them in my computer. It may become a book.
I write short essays, which you will see on my blog. And poetry, a process somewhat akin to creating something incredibly delicious in the kitchen. Or something unpalatable. We all have off days.