I used to climb into trees
And balance a book on knees scraped and bruised.
I’d bite my pen cap and think hard
Because writing came next in the adventure.
I used to hide in my closet
The very back.
And write cliché, preteen girl poems.
I wrote about lost love
Something I’d never found.
I wrote about broken hearts
While mine was whole.
I wrote to say I did.
Now I write in hectic places.
I write to inform and to teach others
In the room full of deadlines and high school drama.
I write because it’s what I do
And what I will do.
I strive for perfection and for a future.
Writing is how I learn.
Interviews and op-eds and breaking news,
Those words send me running for my notebook.
Thrill, for me, is that ever elusive scoop.
The one that will make people read.
The one that will make people care.
My future is writing.
Having an office in the midst of mayhem
With people running papers and typing furiously.
I’ll work in a newsroom
So far from the little girl in the tree
Biting her pen cap,
But still thinking hard.