I recently found a box of old journals that I saved, one of which is the original notebook that I used when I began writing poetry. It's easy to grimace at the thought of being in seventh grade again, to wish that I had known then what I know now. Yet when I read the words of that girl, a girl who was very naive and unsure of who was in her corner, I can't help but feel surprised and in awe. I was a lonely, fearful, and depressed misfit teenager, yet still managed to see the bigger picture. Either by the Grace of God, or the skin of my own teeth, I pushed onward.
Maybe this seems too happy-go-lucky in light of what we see on the news every day, or that hope seems to grow a little bit more distant every time we're on the internet. Nevertheless I wanted to give a glimpse into the early days of being a serious writer, if only to give thanks for how far I've come.