One particularly boring Saturday afternoon when I was 7 years old, I picked up a chapter book— one of those easy readers— and I was hooked. It was about a boy, his second grade classmates, and their field trip to Washington D.C. Up until that point, it had always sounded like a crock when people said that reading was like watching a movie in your head.
From then on, I’d devour any book I could get my hands on. I’d peruse the huge forgotten dictionary and thesaurus I found in the basement, both caked with dust with the spine fraying. I read and reread the same Poe anthology I bought off the discount rack at Borders. I After a few short years, I graduated to classics like The Catcher in the Rye, Till We Have Faces, Memoirs of a Geisha; and my desire to consume the written word persisted, even after we got internet access at home when I was 14 years old.
As for writing . . . I love to write. It’s a liberating and beautiful process, to create with words.
I write in secret. I have a fear of baring a wholly honest part of myself to the world.
I’m afraid of rejection. I’m afraid of being left behind.
So most of the time, I keep things to myself. I keep myself anonymous.
In response to: the current Weekly Writing Challenge