The kindergartner who plunked out misspelled attempts at a wild story about a kite come to life and won a ribbon for it,
The eight-year-old who could not stop writing the spelling class assignment until the short story was over just because the teacher said time was up,
The ten-year-old who thrilled over submitting a poem for the school paper,
The sixth-grader who agonized over a lengthy poem for a county competition because the teacher thought she should be one of the two to represent the school,
The thirteen-year-old who couldn’t stop writing songs,
The junior high student who managed a country-wide honorable mention with her first sonnet ever,
The highschooler who thrived in a writing class given by a local author and entered all the state poetry society contests she could,
The college freshman who found out quickly that not all kinds of writing came naturally,
The junior who redeemed her younger self with all As in the writing classes that mattered and tears from the teacher over her poetry,
The senior who entered the university’s pressure-filled annual extemporaneous writing contest on a whim and won,
The newlywed who was too sick to touch a fraction of writing potential,
The woman who healed and began adulthood in her thirties instead of her twenties,
The mother even before babies in her arms who tucked away for a torturous, angel-surrounded initiation into alignment and authenticity that the world never saw coming and emerges to slowly and deliberately tell the story—and all the stories,
And the eternal being who finally remembered herself,
