My Teenage Self Reminds Me to Keep Writing
While digging in the attic, I found a book full of sibling rivalry, teen angst, and romance. It was my binder of writing from school. I set aside the stories using the week's vocabulary words as I didn't have a dictionary handy, and I entered the magical world of my teenage self. A few stories were typed on my Dad's old typewriter, each letter crisper than a printout can do today. Some poems were amorphous scribbles crawling across the pages with circles and arrows connecting the rhymes. Most stories were in soft lilting cursive in pencil. Teachers must have been so patient to read assignments in cursive. I loved to write poetry. This feeling was briefly awakened when we lived in Detroit for a couple years, and I wrote rap on my way to work. Luckily, it was a short commute, and I didn't force anyone to listen to it on lunch break. Why don't I feel brave enough to try it now? There were also some dark turns in st...