When I was a kid, I wrote poems all the time. I liked it, and the words came easily. I had fun trying to make rhymes and it just felt easy. When I got a bit older, I endeavored to write a children's book about a group of jungle animals. I wrote several chapters with my best friend who was also a gifted artist. She had a funky room with artsy tapestries, and an overstuffed ruby couch where we would listen to Beatles records and dream of being famous. Our friendship and the book ended after eleven chapters, but I never forgot. Later, I found a mentor in a teacher who sported white bucks, perused The New York Times religiously, and didn't let me blend in. I used writing as a way to feel in control as a very sensitive young adult looking to create a life different than what I had known. It calmed me and probably saved me more than once. I started to find my life but not inside the classroom where I was supposed to preparing to be a journalist. Along the way, though, I lost writing. Today I am trying to get it back.
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