Once upon a time, there was a girl who wrote for herself, because she enjoyed it. Then there was a girl who wrote for the approval of others--teachers, judges, editors. Then there was a girl who wrote because the paper she wrote on was the only thing she trusted to hear her. And then there was the girl who wrote to win the attention and affection of someone who would hear her in no other way.
I feel drawn to go back and meet that girl who first started writing at the age of eight; the girl who writes for herself. That girl doesn't blog. She doesn't do email. She doesn't do msn. That girl writes with a medium-point Papermate pen on plain, lined paper. That girl capitalizes and punctuates every sentence. That girl doodles as she writes and doesn't give a fuck what anyone thinks. And she sure as hell doesn't use spellcheck. That girl uses a thesaurus and a dictionary, the kind you open and close with your own hands; the kind you thumb through until your fingers get black and icky. That girl keeps her writing in a Rubbermaid tub and protects it as she protects her own heart, sharing it only with those who have proved worthy.
I suspect that girl is still there, patiently waiting for my return. I've gone to meet her. See you when I get back...