I never saw myself a writer. Sure, I've researched and documented topics of historical interest, and I'm proud of every bit of it. In some cases, I was able to sieve out enough facts to tell a story, and there was no doubt some creativity to it. Here we are, though, and I am writing a story I never expected to put to paper: my own.
The unsent drafts were short, but the oldest stuck in my head, and I held it there and fondled and picked at it for days afterward. The sentiment was simple: Daria had a chance to do over and get right all the things that I'd screwed up earlier in my life. I'd written that, but then failed to send it, and I remembered the emotions that triggered that. Is it possible to write simultaneously from a place of strength, and one of pain?
Several times in the interval since, I've been afforded reminders that sometimes conceptions that people already have are the only ones that matter. Sometimes, you will just be written off, a discouraging sentiment when you're trying to grow and improve as a person. Extra baggage when you're already shouldering a heavy load. Of course, if you let those feelings win, it's point proven. You may have a choice, but you can only keep working. Anything else is defeat.