Since I was a little girl, I never wanted to do or be just one thing. You know, that “what do you want to be when you grow up?” question. My answer was always: a singer, a dancer, a painter, a teacher, and a writer. I had every intention on becoming every single one of these people. I won’t explain every profession and how it influenced my life somehow, I’ll just stick to writing.
Writing became something I always did for as long as I can remember. I was fascinated with my mother’s hand script, and intrigued by words I didn’t know in the storybooks that were always given to me as gifts. Before I could even write my own name, I would practice the scraggly lines my mother would make every time she wrote something down. Once it came to be my turn to learn how to write, my mother’s Italian boyfriend would help me saying: “Don’t use your left hand, people who write with their left are wrong, write with your right. You’ll be smart if you do.”
My mother says that I had always had difficulty deciding which hand to use and that often I did things with my left, however she decided to enforce my right handed efforts, probably because she is also right-handed. Now that I’m older, I have a first grade print with my left hand, and beautiful script with my right hand. Though I think that came from the strict regime of re-doing homework until it was neat enough for my mother’s approval.
Thus became my passion for writing. Having books upon books, visiting museums and libraries at every chance, words became my first love. I was nine or ten when I wrote my first poem, though still trying to be a painter with my Crayola crayons. It wouldn’t be until I was in the 5th grade (only a year letter from that first poem) that I would write my first journal. It was a class assignment given to us to keep up with for the rest of the school year. From then on, the rest is a path I have been laying brick by brick covered in words that flow as freely as the air I breathe.
This is my voice and my journey.