The Last Page

When I was younger I wanted to be a lot of things. I would also try and give up on
 a lot of things. In the third grade for a long period of time I wanted to be a
 writer. By a long period of time I mean about two months. For a third grader that
 was an eternity. I would write in a meager blue notebook that had a purple butterfly
 plastered on the front cover. I remember this exact notebook because I hated the
 cover; I was very much a tom boy when I was younger. I would write about the non
 existing adventures my friends and I would have. I wrote with horrible grammar, a
 very limited vocabulary, and a story line that ultimately had no line at all. But it
 made me ecstatic to stand at the front of the class and read my stories. My stories
 that I begged my teacher to let me perform to my classmates. This realistic dream
 soon just became a dream when I was told that I would ultimately make no money doing
 something that I learned to love. I then told myself that I wasn't good at my skill
 to lesson the pain of no longer doing it. As well as not being able to distinguish
 exceptional writing to lousy writing because it all looked the same to me. Fast
 forward to the start of my senior year of high school. The year where no matter how
 busy you are you can always find yourself with a lot of free time. I found my free
 time in a blow off creative writing class. I found it effortless to press my pen to
 paper and create something that others found perplexing. I wrote with better grammar,
 a more advance vocabulary, and story lines that made some sense. Well, they made
 sense to me but to others they could be overwhelming. Fast forward another year. I
 have a blog and I find myself on the last page of a fully completed journal.
 I never find myself trying to write for others and it makes me jubilant to write 
thoughts down and write from others perspectives. I learned that just because you may 
not make any money doing something and you may not be the best at it doesn't mean you 
should destroy it.



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