Boxes

writer: little girl on airplane

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.

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In the night I write while my loved ones slumber. I tiptoe to my computer, through the kitchen, into the office. No need for light, I know my way. Behind me I hear patter of puppy paws on the wood floor . One of my critics is following me and finds her comfort zone on a pillow underneath my desk.

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