You’ve known it for years.
When you were 4, story time was your favorite activity, and you’d always ask your parents for more books, more words, less pictures, more fairytale. You wanted the meat of it, you wanted the words to ignite your imagination. When you learned to write, you began writing your own stories, your letters a stick-scrawl that didn’t pay attention to the lines on the page, but that didn’t matter to you. You were the only child who didn’t groan during poetry units in class and the one who bought the most books in the book sale. You’ve owned more journals than you can count, and the blank pages in the back of your favorite books are a jumble of your own thoughts. One day, you tell yourself, they’ll be worth millions, for here lies your earliest work.
Your parents will be worried about you, and they’ll…
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