There was a time that I loved creative writing, and even one day, with the insistence of my mother, planned to write my memoirs. In the inscription in my Webster’s Dictionary that I received in my 10th year, my grandfather wrote, “3-16-94 this book is dedicated to Anna and her hope to become famous as a writer.” I loved everything about writing: the word play, the endless possibilities, the absolute creative freedom, the thrill of making others feel. I not only took my characters on a journey, but I also went myself. Then about 7 years ago, I took an actual creative writing class. The instructor had lost both of his feet to diabetes and cruised through the always overflowing hallways as a shark does through schools of
There was a time that I loved creative writing, and even one day, with the insistence of my mother, planned to write my memoirs. In the inscription in my Webster’s Dictionary that I received in my 10th year, my grandfather wrote, “3-16-94 this book is dedicated to Anna and her hope to become famous as a writer.” I loved everything about writing: the word play, the endless possibilities, the absolute creative freedom, the thrill of making others feel. I not only took my characters on a journey, but I also went myself. Then about 7 years ago, I took an actual creative writing class. The instructor had lost both of his feet to diabetes and cruised through the always overflowing hallways as a shark does through schools of