Actually, I suck at this

My whole life, I've been writing. Usually badly. I wrote my first story at 9 years old. It was illustrated and bound with the finest staples in all the land. It was called "The 4 W's" about 4 friends all with - yes, you guessed it - "W" names. It was a mystery. (Curious? The 4th "W" was the guilty one.) I write because I have to, because the words will echo over and over again in my mind until I let them out. I started young - the oldest journal I have is from 1979. The pages are now dotted with black mold. So not only were my words poorly organized, they've now become toxic. From 1979, realizing that I was no longer as close to the people I'd known when I was little: It feels like After all we've shared We aren't friends I was so outwardly shallow, boy-crazy, and hyper that when real stuff would happen I couldn't actually get a sympathetic ear to help me sort things out. Journals were my thought trampolines. From 1982, after Danny (a boy I liked) died: Sometimes he'd hold my hand, Sometimes he'd buy me lunch, just sit and eat with me even though I was sitting with other freshmen that he probably thought were juvenile Sometimes I would go down to Lower Field and watch him play and he'd wave to me as he ran by Relinquishing my childhood was like 15 years spent in the 5 stages of grief. I journalled using prose, poetry, movie quotes or song lyrics that resonated. It was so often frustrating trying to find a voice - mine or anyone else's - that could really speak my heart. From 1986, when I was first in my group to live "on my own": What about, they ask, the parties? the all-nighters? Doing what you want, when you want? Sure, we have them We order in a pizza and we play trivial pursuit From 1987, after finally closing the door on a bad relationship (assume the cringing position before reading this one): The empty spot beside me is no longer a burden but a freedom no longer alive for you but rather, for myself Wow, I read that and I'm pretty sure that I actually suck as a writer. It's probably best that I've destroyed so many of those old journals over the years. They weren't time capsules. I was just exhaling in words the crowded thoughts in my head. You'd think that practice would make perfect but in my case it only makes prolific. Ah, if wishes were fishes I'd be an author. But I'll take writer, and plug on.