I found my passion for writing sparked in my 8th grade classroom, but that spark ignited here on my parents' three-season porch. It has changed much, yet much of it has stayed the same. For instance, it did not host all my storage totes, which remind me that I recently moved home from the big city, where I adopted Gylfie, the cat featured to your left. Writing is a task I can usually only accomplish alone, though she is the exception. Often dozing nearby, she's a steady reminder as to not take myself too seriously.
I remember sitting out on that porch, even when it grew dark. I used the single lamp hanging from the wall and a small box tv that had been given us by my grandfather. I chose this spot in the house, because it was away from the eyes of my parents, who would have not approved of my delving into novice-level creative writing while my math homework sat open but vastly untouched nearby.
It was on this porch that I penned my first novel, though all in pencil. Each finished page was placed in plastic sleeves to protect the graphite from rubbing off inside the binder. I still have that binder someplace, afraid to look, because the last time I looked at those pages, I was proud of them. Now I fret those writings from my youth would only summon chagrin.
But how far I have come, should I dare to be a bit boastful. It was on this same porch that I wrote the very first draft (as there have been several first drafts in the years since) of Storm Wielders, or Elementals, as it was called back then. It is oddly refreshing to bring its current draft back like a pilgrimage to this place.