As a child, reading provided all the excitement I needed in my life. Instead of getting into the usual youthful mischief, I raided bookshelves for daily fixes of story books, poetry, and comics; squirreling away snippets of dialogue and clever phrases for later use.
It wasn’t long before I began to create my own stories. They were nothing elaborate, but these stories allowed to express myself in ways I had never envisioned. Words became my escape, taking me to places that transcended the poverty, squalor, and despair that surrounded me.
In elementary school, I would spend several hours drawing pictures and plotting stories to go with them. Although my teachers were frustrated by my short attention span, they never discouraged my writing efforts. My second grade teacher decided to cultivate my creativity by encouraging me to write a story to submit to the district-wide writing competition. I wrote a story about a fast horse that won a race. The story was accepted and earned me first place in my grade category. I was proud of my accomplishment until my teacher made me read my story to a class of fifth-graders whose writing skills left much to be desired. Needless to say, I was not popular among the members of that class. A couple of the boys showed me how displeased they were with a few insults and several well-placed kidney punches…Read the rest of the story on Mocha Dad