Writing in the Blood

In the process of going through boxes stored at my parents’ house and the “purge” on my apartment, I’ve discovered that writing has been with me a long time.

In my parents’ basement, I found awards from junior high.  Some of them I remember (like the unexpected Home Economics award) but somehow I had forgotten that I’d won the English award every year I was there.  This could be partly related to my insatiable reading habit, but you know writing had to be part of it, too.

In my collected random papers I’ve found the beginnings of stories and notes on fantasy worlds.  I’ve found folders of poems and a poetry journal.  An art project that I created reads like a nature journal, observing human behavior.  There are letters from senators in response to letters I’ve written, and a draft of a letter to the school board in my home town.

I also found several drafts of my master’s thesis and the first printed draft of Butterflies.

Along with all of this is a pile of books about writing.  Not to mention that my goal of getting down to one bookcase was a futile dream – there’s at least two shelves worth of books piled on the floor in my bedroom, waiting for me to recruit help to move the second bookcase.

Clearly I have a long relationship with the written word.


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