Scrawl
I remember wanting to write from a young age. Before I learned my alphabet, I would sit in my room and scribble 'words' across pages, doting and crossing my imaginary 'i's and 't's in my childish approximation of cursive handwriting. Those scrawled words would have meaning for the few moments that I could remember them, and I would read my stories to the host of stuffed animals that sat attentively on my bed, the children for my personal library story time.
As I've gotten older, I still write quite a lot. Much of the time it ends up in this blog or my personal journal. I don't ever really write anything creative, which makes me sad. I guess as I have gotten older, the childhood dream has gotten muddled in everything else. Maybe that's just how life goes sometimes.
1 comment:
I think being busy plays a part in the death (or at least hibernation) of creativity.
PS: Writing you a letter is still on my list of things I want to do. To be honest, most weekends it's a struggle to even wash my dishes and do my laundry, so to be realistic, it may be awhile before I have the mental capacity and time to sit down and write a half-hour letter. Don't get me wrong, it doesn't mean I don't want to. Maybe next time I'm tempted to spend some time writing on my blog, I'll sit down with a pen and paper instead and you'll get some of my thoughts :)
Love you, hon.
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