Ever since I started tracing letters in a box of sand and struggling to make my way through books with cardboard pages, I have wanted to be a writer. I always pictured myself sitting outside a cafe downtown, in the middle of a giant city, with my laptop open on the table in front of me, a warm cup of coffee, and the inspiration flowing into my brain from the common masses streaming around me.
Unfortunately, real life doesn’t seem to quite work that way. I didn’t major in English – my father had majored in English, and he claims it was a terrible decision. (“The only job you can get with an English degree is to teach other people how to get English degrees! It’s one of those Ponzi schemes!”). Instead, I picked up a degree in the biological sciences and dropped my fantasy novels for anatomy textbooks.
However, that eternal spirit always manages to rise inside me every now and then, like a phoenix from the ashes of its former shell. What a cliched metaphor. But in any case, I am young, next to broke, and going to try my hand at writing a blog. Please, read along. Comment. Tell me if some thought or story idea sparks a thrill of images in your mind. Compliment me on a well-performed turn of phrase. Point out grammatical mistakes if you must. Some of these are sentence fragments, I know.