This evening I knew I had to work on my book. These things do not write themselves, after all. I refrained from an evening out with friends. I would, indeed, work on the narrative. Tonight
was the night.
While my laptop was warming up I looked around my bedroom and came to the conclusion that creative genius could not be cultivated in clutter. So, I began to clean. (Those of you who know me well understand that this is not par for the course. I was avoiding writing the book, and was desperate enough to avoid it that I cleaned instead.)
While sifting through some old papers I came across my first journal. It is written by a six year old version of me. Each entry is usually a picture accompanied by text that is barely passable for English.
I came across this entry half way through the journal:
Allow me to translate – “I love being a ninja. It’s rad. I love it.”
I can derive two things from this picture and text:
1. I was clearly a bad-ass at age six.
2. That little girl would not
be scared of writing the painful parts of the book. She had guts. She would tell me to stop being a wuss and slay the book with the stealth of a ninja.
I’m taking her advice. Chapter 3: prepare to be rocked.