I used to be a writer in days gone by. The words came to me even if I didn't want them to. Some said I had the gift of storytelling, but I thought everyone was like that but had a more challenging time expressing it. I'd write about everything from those days gone by. People I knew, places I'd been. I'd write about love and sorrows. If a writable thought came to mind, I wrote on paper bags, napkins, scraps of paper I found blowing down the road, and anything else I could find. I wrote my entire life, and I'm seventy years of age and still banging away at the keypad. I don't anticipate writing another book; I had my fill of that. I no longer want to be edited except for my good friend Grammarly. Now, when I write, I want it to be of some importance, hoping my children and grandchildren will read some, if not all, of my work. There are at least one thousand, if not more, pieces of my writing on my computer and hundreds of handwritten pieces in boxes gathering dust in a closet.
It's my belief that I wasn't meant to be a known writer. When writing them, I knew my books would only be important to myself and a very small handful of people who enjoyed my ramblings. Yes, I used to be a writer once, and before my mind is lost, I'll reach for the words and smile when one or two find me.
Mike
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