I remember feeling like my life had ended. I remember thinking that I'd never finish high school. I remember feeling alone, even if I wasn't, and I remember assuming that I'd never acheive anything in my adult life.
But I finished high school. I grew up beside my child, and I pursued what I loved whether I was concscious of it or not. I still have the micro-cassett recorder I bought fifteen years ago, to record ideas that came to me while I was driving. I have boxes of short stories, a fun way to pass the time, leading me toward the path I would inevitably take. I've stored the three-ring binder, full of asperations and purple prose, to remind me of how much I've grown. And I have the battle scars, visible only to me, proof of my determination to succeed.
I love the worlds I create like I love my children. I cherish the stories like I cherish my marriage. And I sit down at this keyboard day after day, thankful for each keystroke, each request, each rejection. I'm thankful for the friends I've made, the writers who feel what I feel every day.
I'm thankful for the words.