When I was a young boy, around the age of nine or ten, I believed when I grew up, I ought to be a writer. At various points in my life, I would forsake the idea. I convinced myself there was no future in writing, or I would declare myself “not good enough” with finessing the word, and then I would stop altogether. Like a demon that possesses one’s spirit, however, I forever find myself – fingers on keyboard, eyes on the blank page – wishing to keep that childhood vision alive. Who am I? I was the youngest child...

Article Link