I remember a cousin of mine bragging about their grades that they got without even trying. I understood then that your talent is something you are unconsciously and instinctually good at like Spiderman and his webs. So I looked at my skills, as an obviously old-soul-and-too-mature-for-her-age-11-year-old, and picked writing. This was to be my superpower.
I wrote because I thought I was good at it, or at least better than my brothers. I wrote because more people said they enjoyed my writing than didn’t. I wrote because I like who I thought I would grow up to be with writing.
But then as I got older it was harder to steal away moments to write. The talent that I thought was mine so easily, I found needed the time. Skills demanded the sacrafice of time to hone. I could no longer scribble away in school classes that I thought were boring. Now, life encroached and there was so much to do.
I have been an especially bad thief this past couple of weeks.
So I guess I’m going to have to get crafty and sneaky, ’cause I like who I am when I write.