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?