My earliest childhood memory is sitting at a homemade desk in the middle of winter. The desk had to made from old piece of wood because I was so small and young that the desks in the shops were far too big. The glow from the lamp was warm but didn’t travel all that far. I looked up to my father, who was a giant beside, so tall the light could not reach him entirely. ‘Make sure you get a job with a ladder’ he said from the heavens, his words heavy and large on my young ears, ‘a job where you can move upwards’. Those words still, to this day, echo through my being.
I fell in love with words and stories as my mother took me to the local library on lazy summer days. I dreamed of writing stories about dragons and being happy forever. Those dreams decayed in my heart as the words of my father came from the shadows where they reside. Those dreams died as time after time any, and every one, told me that being a writer was not a job and I would never get money and be able to live. I listened and here I am fresh out of law school with nothing to show.
I suppose this is my final push, my final attempt at writing and living out a childhood dream. Join me on this journey as I rekindled my love of literature and free my imagination from the clasps of the demons born from adulthood.
