you know, it is not that I don’t have things to write about but lately I guess I wonder once again about why 

I can write until the cows come home ….and there are cows all around me, you can be sure and —they are all home ….but why?they told me to write and …. I guess it is something about how I string my words but with the thought vortex they just tumble out 

I would never have given a fig to be a writer

 had it not been for Mr Page 

and Mr Lance 

(of whom kept my 13 year old journal)

but if not for those English teachers, I was actually quite glad to dream out the window

 my imaginary lives (but then—something happened

that day Mr Page read my daydream to the class telling everyone it was from a magazine something powerful flooded through me as I listened to and watched the reactions from the class as he read. I stood outside myself and felt like a charge rush through me like a tuning fork ….)

and the fear of the power 

the pressure for important words ….when all I want to do is doodle 

that really is code for something —you know….