I remember:

A high school yearbook with messages from two teachers: one message mentions future success as a published writer. The other also praises my writing, but mentions room for improvement.

I took the second message too much to heart. If one is committed to the road of perfection, there can never be true success. I saw failure between the lines. My stories lacked endings, my poems only came with angst.

Now, I dedicate myself here to write what I know, and to be as authentic as possible. Right now, simply to write is the beginning. The discovery of the why, the artistry, may come later.


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