In 1983 I was ten years old. Sitting on my bed with a friend during a sleepover we read each other’s letters. A pile of thirty or more that we had written to our boyfriends. You know, the type that one folds into shapes like origami, except sloppy with scribbles all over them. Damn, I miss that simplicity. The content was always easily summed up with, “I like you. Do you like me?”
After reading one of mine twice, or maybe three times my friend presented me with a deceptive plan. “Write letters to my boyfriend?” She said. It took her a minute, but she explained her reasoning. Simply, she wanted her letters to sound like mine. I debated the moral implications of such a deceptive plan, thoroughly. But, was struck mostly by the feeling that had found something that I am good at. I did not write letters for my friend. As I felt, that may have caused damage to her relationship, even if he never knew. However, after this, I thought briefly about writing a story before I returned to the simplicity of grade school letters.
I was a senior in High School before I sat down and focused on storytelling. Little did I know that I had been telling stories since right after I learned to speak? I believed for quite some time that vivid description was as important to everyone as it was to me. I may have failed to focus on improving my skills yet, was always doing the job of a storyteller, because that is just who I am.
