Making up for Ten Years

On the first day of the sixth grade my teacher asked me "What do you want to do when you grow up?"

I followed up the astronaut, the scientist and the cool kid who shrugged his shoulders and said "Whatevs" as his cronies backed him up with forced little chuckles.

I had moved to the small town of Casselman a week before and knew absolutely no one. I hated the small farming land with a fiery passion my mother swore would fade as time rolled on and I got used to my current life. She had no idea I was going to hate it for the next seven years.

"I want to be a writer." I told the class in my bravest brave boy voice.

Silence.

The class laughed. I sat down red faced.

"I'd show them" I mused in my best villain voice "I'd show them ALL!"

I was wrong

They're still laughing in the ether of time. I'm not a writer. Not even close. I'm barely a scribbler.

Three screenplays. Countless books started and left to collect dust. Zero short stories. About ten blogs started and abandoned.

I've hemmed and hawed, I've made apologies and shuffled my feet, I've distracted myself with something else . I can type over 113 words per minute. I'm not that smart, but I'm clever enough to create something that could create a mild chuckle if someone accidentally stumbled upon it.

I not a gifted writer. I'm only a decent one. The first step to getting work out is acceptance.

I can't lean against the "No one is going to want to read this so I shouldn't write it" crutch. Every day I'm going to write one full article, maybe even a few tiny ones, but it has to cap the 1,000 word barrier.

Here we go.

Please hold my hand. I'm afraid.