The first time

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I looked at the emptyness, overcome with emotion. The passion, the fever of the expectation of the realization of success. My success. The one thing I’d never quite acheived before but had always reached and reached and reached for in every aspect of my life. The feeling washed over me as I gripped my favorite weapon. 


I watched as my hand raised upon the notebook resting in my lap. As my arm reached over the blank page, the passion I had felt for the first time only moments before shot through me. A flash of beauty, of exquisite, extraordinary, and unexplainable fervor. It flowed through my body as the words wrote themselves in the ink of my father's favorite pen. I was merely their way out, their medium of escape. 


The first time I tried to write a story I was seven years old. I was sitting below an old oak tree. The leaves had just begun to fall and I had just learned how to sign my name in cursive. I knew nothing about grammar, about sentence structure, about a story arch. I knew only that each year the leaves fell from that old oak tree and each night my mother would tuck me into bed and tell me that I could be anything that I wanted to be. When I was seven I believed her, and I believed that my knowledge of my own ability was enough to succeed in life. Now I believe I was more prepared to be a writer then than I am so many years later.

Created: Mar 19, 2012

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