My First Love

My first love was writing; I’ve been writing since I could pick up a pencil and make out words. You see it all started with reading. I learned how to read basically by osmosis when I was three years old. There were no phonics lesson; in fact I discovered the Your Baby Can Read method before it was ever invented. My mom read to me all the time, being an avid reader herself, so I learned to read through the recitation of my favorite story books. I then made the leap to making out unique words on my own. At three my mother and I were in a bookstore when I asked her for a comic book, probably Archie. My mom’s response was, “You can’t read that”. I told her I could in fact read it and she then told me she would buy me the comic if I read one of the pages to her. I then surprised her by reading that page, the comic was mine and so was a love for reading.

After reading all these great books I realized that there were stories in me that I wanted to get out on paper. So, I picked up a pencil and started writing. The first book that I remember writing and sharing with others was when I was eight. I had gotten this cute pre-Christmas gift, Christmas is a month long celebration in the Robinson household, and I decided to write a story about the gift it was a fuzzy thing with red earmuffs and mittens. So, I gave this fluffy toy a back-story involving Santa Claus and his workshop. I also illustrated the book, another sort of hidden talent of mine. Later at eleven I wrote a story about three princesses and gave it to my aunt who owned a daycare. That book became a story time book for her young students.

Later in middle school I started writing poetry, like every other romantic pre-teen in the world. I wrote sappy love poems about my middle school crush; shout out to Troy Parker, thanks for being my muse. As middle school wore on and I entered the world of teenage angst, I wrote about my then volatile relationship with my mother in my journals. The most traumatic moment in my young writing “career” was my mother “finding” my journal one day when she stayed home from work and proceeding to shred EVERY SINGLE PAGE in my journal. I came home to find my shredded journal on the kitchen table and my mother told me “Don’t you ever write no SHIT about me like that again!” It scarred me; truly I have not been able to really journal since that day.

I periodically write things in a journal, usually when I’m going through really shitty periods in my life, but I can’t make it a habit. However, I love journals so I have about five of them with like five pages filled in each. I hope that no one reads them when I die because they’d be like, “Dayum, she was going through some stuff!” LOL. I’m going to make a new practice of writing in my journal at least once a week, it doesn’t have to be a report of my week or my day, it can just be a word, I just want to get something down and out of my brain. I guess you could say this blog is like my journal for the moment. I’m putting out my feelings and ideas about this new adventure I’m on in my life. I guess this is the journal of me being a real bona fide adult and it only took me 31 years to get here!