As an angst-ridden teen who dreamed of becoming a writer, I spent most of my time journaling on the minutiae of my day, coming up with pseudonyms (Clio Duvall is one I recall), and thinking up the titles of books I would write: Fifteen Isn’t Fatal; The Suicidal Horse.
I never made it beyond titles. Fiction is not my forte. Creating characters and coming up with plot lines does not come naturally to me. I lived a sheltered life that didn’t offer up much source material beyond typical childhood woes of not being liked and not liking myself. I could find nothing from my own experiences to draw on as a starting point except sadness, hence the depressing titles of books never to be written.
As an adult, I can accept my limitations as a writer. I worry less about not being liked. I’m still working on liking myself. And I can take those previously unused titles and turn them into a blog fodder. So, thanks, childhood self. As I pondered what to write on day fifteen of NanoPoblano, your love of alliteration inspired this post.