I’ve been thinking about why this is so hard for me—just to write something, make a draft, edit later.

I remembered something from my childhood—I was somewhere between 6 and 8 years old. My Mom had asked me to go find something in a drawer of her dresser, and I found some things I’d written. Just doodly things, but they seemed very personal at the time. I think one of them was supposed to be a newspaper, but all of it was private, just for me. I was very upset that she’d taken my writings without telling me.

She said she wanted to keep them for when I was older, that she’d been impressed with my creativity. She apologized and gave them back. Somehow it’s still embarrassing to think about it, although it shouldn’t be.

Since then, more than thirty years, I’ve kept my creativity on the inside, not written much down. I can brainstorm with my friends about stories, but the actual writing is a chore.

I wonder what might have happened if my Mom had asked first, since she really didn’t mean to intrude. I wonder if I’d be churning out story after story, instead of having a history of turning papers in late.

Mom has said for years that I should be a writer, possibly based on that early experience, since for a long time I couldn’t figure out what could possibly make her say that.

Now I have an image in my head of the curly-headed kid I was, cranking out pages of silliness without embarrassment. Maybe I can find her again.