Most of my childhood days were spent on the front porch writing songs or poetry. I always had this secret want to write a book, but I never thought I was "smart" enough to write one. It takes time, thought, and more thought into creating a different world. So, I would push my dream aside, and forget that it ever existed. Then every few years that little book writing knot in my chest would return. Until one day I wrote a chapter about a girl who moved to New York City and a boy from London. If I had kept ignoring that little spark of passion, I would never have discovered that there was fire inside of me. 

 

That still didn’t make the heart-racing, tummy-aching feeling in my bones go away. What if they hate it? What if i’m bad at it? If I never pushed past my fear of other people’s opinions, I’d still be sitting on the sidelines of my own damn life. The sidelines are lukewarm, my friends. Nobody wants a lukewarm life. -VA