i knew i wanted to be a writer before i even knew how to write.  

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when i was three, i’d just watched Pocahontas while my mom folded laundry in the living room.

afterwards, i felt alive with a story.  

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i dragged a child-sized picnic table from the backyard to the top of our driveway,  
set up under the neighbour’s tree, and began to “write.”  

with a pencil and a stack of paper, i scribbled my first story. 

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when i finished, i ran upstairs to share it with my mom.  
she stopped folding laundry and ripped the papers from my hands.  
“you didn’t write this,” she said, scanning my work for proof.

 

and she was right—i couldn’t yet read or write.  
i had only scribbled, pretending the lines were words,  
then recited my story from memory, pretending to read.

 

but that day, at three years old, i wrote my first short story,

complete with a beginning, a middle, and an end.  
and performed for my first audience—mom.

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what happened that day still happens now—  
a whisper from God 
a story moves through me like a storm cloud pours rain over a thirsty crop

 

this space is where i share those stories—  
essays, poems, reflections.  
whatever wants to be written.