So, today is my birthday. I'm officially legal [for what, you will have to use your imagination].
It's been a fun few decades, I have to say, and I've had a good life so far, and am looking forward to more adventures and mischiefs.
Lately, perhaps because of my impending birthday, I kept thinking about my childhood. My family wasn't rich -- far from it, actually -- and I do remember being envious of all the "nice stuff" my friends had. I tried to fit in, but I couldn't afford all those fancy tennis rackets and shoes and road trips. But now I look back on my childhood, I realized I had so much fun, so many friends, and really all I ever needed. Was it perfect? No, but whose childhood is? What I had, and still have, is love and support of my family. In fact, I think I'm really spoiled (for a writer) because I was so loved and never had to go through any real traumas or significant losses. I sometimes wonder, "Does that make my stories less potent or powerful, because I haven't experienced real tragedies?" But I realize, first-person experiences are not prerequisites of being a writer. Imagination, hard-work, and empathy are; and I think I've got those.
500 words, 21000 words total
315 days and 164500 words to go