Ever since I was a little girl, I always knew I was meant to be a writer. I gleefully imagined my future – I would only write wearing my favorite red sweater, the lucky one that helped me get straight A’s on all my Spelling exams. I would lie in bed with my cat curled up around my arm, and write with a pencil long enough to reach the ceiling.

This was before I knew how to turn on a computer, much less how to type, and when I was still infatuated with the color red. This was when writing still seemed glamorous to me. The thought, that you could get paid and become famous to do something that was so easy! Stories flew from my fingertips like birds released from cages. So eager to spread their wings across the page.

Now I own a laptop and type all my writing … when I have the time. I no longer am infatuated with the color red, preferring black instead. I see writing now for what it truly is – it is hard work, work that demands discipline.

But the kid in me is still holding out for that extra long pencil.