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I used to write

I have a fat, white binder col­lect­ing dust in the garage. In it are the yel­low­ing pages of my child­hood cre­ativ­ity — poems, draw­ings and sto­ries — span­ning fifth grade through early col­lege. My binder is brim­ming with the begin­nings of nov­els — romance sto­ries thinly dis­guised as epic fan­tasies. I was an insa­tiable writer, com­pletely lack­ing any self-consciousness, and con­vinced that I was des­tined to be the next great novelist.

But, then things got in the way  (as they inevitably do). First: school. Writ­ing phi­los­o­phy papers tend to steal your focus and suck your cre­ativ­ity dry. Then: life. Job. Mar­riage. Baby. I try to sat­isfy my cre­ative crav­ings with web design, and help­ing oth­ers ful­fill their dreams. My own pas­sion for writ­ing got stuffed in the crevices of my life story…stuffed into a binder mold­ing in the garage.

And now, as my writ­ing fin­gers creak to life again…I find myself a much more cau­tious, timid writer, afraid that I sim­ply don’t have the chops. Never did. Amid the din of every­one vying for their place in the sun, I wonder…

Do I still have it in me?