Writing is a major part of my life, and I can’t go a day without doing something that revolves around writing. Even though some days I don’t have anything written on a page, it’s in my mind. I’m always analyzing people and their actions. She has attitude, how would I describe her walk? Adjectives flood my head, as I think of as many descriptors as I possibly can. Something as marvelous and important to me didn’t just happen it was born.

It began in second grade, my handwriting was finally legible for everyone to read and I liked to write stories. Although my spelling was not the best I thought I was the world’s next best author. As second grade came to an end, I learned we were going to be uprooted once more. Even though my Dad had worked at this job since he was in high school he could not help the fact that the job security just wasn’t in Dallas any more. My friends that I had made in the six years in living there were going to be gone; I would have to start fresh in New Mexico. I remember hearing a song that sparked my inspiration.

“Friends never say goodbye,


If they did they wouldn’t be friends anymore…”

The simplicity of those words that were on that piece of paper in my little notebook I got from my Grandma, those words were truly beautiful. The mind of a second grader so simple in a way that is beautiful, and honest. And with that mind set my first poem was born, it was long and took up a whole page. Ever since then, I saw writing in a whole new light. Writing was not always just a story. Writing could be anything I wanted it to be. When I had my first poetry project in fifth grade I felt like I had a calling for writing. When the project was complete two of my poems were hung up on the wall. It wasn’t up to me, if it was I would have shied away and never had the hung on the wall. Even though it wasn’t anything to be embarrassed about I was absolutely terrified.

In sixth grade we wrote a poem about our favorite color. I chose midnight black, I loved that poem; it was so full of imagination and character. My character. Though the poem was dark, it had a flow, and when it was my turn to read I could not help, but be nervous and excited because finally someone would get to hear my poem, and hear it from me. Although my peers had heard my work, I hid it from parents. I could never let them hear my work like this. Any of my writing, I never showed my parents.

When I did show my Mom she would say: “Oh very nice.” In her tone that did not show that she felt anything for it. Ever since then my work has always been my own. No one else gets to see it besides me and the few I let into my writing bubble. That was until I found an internet site where I could post my work and hear from people how my writing made them feel. No longer was it a monotone response, but an oooh and ahh. I didn’t worry about the grade I got just about how I made people feel with my writing. I remember logging onto my computer and checking my email seeing peoples responses to what I posted. It was amazing the feeling of pride I had at that moment. They like me, they really do.