The Child Prodigy

I am not one of those unrealistic people who believes in fate and destiny and all that crud, but sometimes I feel as though I am destined to write.

When my sister and I were children, our mother bought a chalkboard from a retired teacher and hung it in the garage. My sister and I would spend hours in the garage frantically scribbling on the chalkboard as we attempted to illustrate the stories we rapidly conjured together. We spoke so quickly that our hands could barely keep up. Ideas, stories, and characters filled the three-paneled chalkboard and then when it was all done, we would erase and start again. Most of our stories were about pony races and evil leprechauns, but they always entertained us.

As we grew older, our mother continued to nurture our creativity by giving us blank notebooks to write in. My sister and I would run off on our own to write and illustrate stories. Then, we would rejoin and share our stories with each other.

During high school, my sister and I continued this tradition. Every Friday, we got together in my sister's room and swapped our writings for critique. This was a special event for my sister and I. We made special snacks to go with the reading served with green tea and we lit incense and candles for ambiance. We even played appropriate background music for ambiance. After the reading, we would walk my dogs and discuss what we read.

Now that my sister and I live apart, we haven't gotten much writing done. We only talk about writing. It used to motivate me to know that as I was working on my novel, she was in the next room working on hers. Without my sister here, I feel as though writing has lost its tradition and its enjoyment. It feels more like a chore that I am forced to bear alone. I know that she would gladly read my work (if I wrote anything) but it just isn't the same.

But still, I can't help but feel as though our childhood has destined us, in some way, to both seriously pursue writing.