Cleaning out the dusty attic today, I found a large box, on the top in faded marker, my name. I knew the box was old, the writing was juvenile with a heart over the i. Too heavy for me to drag down the ladder, my ever patient husband lugged it down for me.
I pulled out notebooks full of poems, short stories and beginnings of novels: works of a young ambitious girl.
Some of it is good, might even be better “re-tweeked.” It brought back so many memories of the many days and nights I hunched over these spiral colored pages.
So.. I begin to gather the thoughts of my youth and maybe learn something new about myself.