There are only a few precious memories. Growing up in a household that was argumentative and often violent, it was honestly quite horrible. There is one memory however that I return to quite often. I would say I was about 10 and I got up pretty early one beautiful sunny morning and went out and sat on the grass with a pencil and paper, and wrote. I remember clearly writing about the dew on the grass in particular. I drifted away from writing but in the last 2 years or so have picked it up again and love how I get lost in my stories. I feel sad that so much time has elapsed since it is obvious to me now - this was my passion all along.
