I'm sitting in the library where I grew up, where my love of books first developed. It's the same--and yet different. Bright, airy and quiet. Full of possibilities.
I've been able to revisit a lot of my past this week in my hometown, particularly in cleaning out boxes of old things (the main purpose of my trip). I happened upon a short story I'd written my sophomore year--that I'd completely forgotten about. About a girl who goes to the country and has to choose between two brothers--one, attractive and suave, the other, a bit uglier and kinder. The moral of the story, of course, was the kinder brother was the correct choice. If only I'd taken my own advice sooner.
I also happened upon a pay stub from the town's newspaper for my very first published article (also from my sophomore year). I remembered that one--but forgotten I was paid $25.00 for it. Another paper, a certificate, revealed I wrote an essay that put me in the top 2 percent in a state-wide exam.
These puzzle pieces pointed to something I didn't realize until I was in my late twenties: that writing was something I was always meant to do. It was there, lying dormant, waiting to be picked up. It just took me a long time to realize it.
So--be sure you clean out those dust bunnies (both external and internal) once in a while. You'll never know what you might find.
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