Sometime in my early elementary years I was told I was a good writer. Undoubtedly my parents had a lot to do with that, but a few teachers showered on the praise. When I was a kid, I kind of stunk at anything athletic. I earned Cs in gym class. I couldn't ride a two-wheeler until I neared my 8th birthday and I never set foot on a soccer field or basketball court. So I devoured all the accolades. I loved being good at something. My diary was my best friend and I was probably the only kid in class who got excited about writing sentences with spelling words. For special occasions, I wrote poems or stories as presents to my parents. I loved writing "books", and in middle school I joined the after school writing club. I was convinced writing was my destiny.
I guess I was right, though I'm not writing books as I dreamed (yet). I'm happy though, and I'm absolutely ecstatic that Julie shares my love. Every day after school she rummages for paper and gets to work on her "books." She writes about friends and animals, teachers and field trips. And she creates characters. Her imagination and creativity amaze me. Her sentences aren't perfect and sometimes her stories need more thought or explanation. But, it's really her passion that moves me. My girl's got the writing bug.
Here's a whimsical little blurb she wrote for St. Patrick's Day.