portrait of the writer as a preschooler

When I was four, I dipped my finger into my grape juice and wrote my name on our new sofa. In fifth grade, I started a writing club, where the monthly dues were a short story and a Bonnie Bell Lip Smacker® to trade. In college, I'd haul my electric typewriter and those chalky little correction strips into the hall and write stories that I was sure The New Yorker was dying to publish. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t love to write. 

Comments

[Lynsley]

LOVE THIS!!! Excited to follow your writing here. You have an amazing gift, and I am delighted you have a new way of sharing it.