When I was a child, I used to write stories. I used to sitin my room for hours by myself, writing away, about school, about sports, bout my day, about my friends and family. Not because I wanted anyone to read it. Not because I wanted to impress my parents or teachers. But for the sheer joy of it.
And then, for some reason, I stopped. And I don't remember why.
We all have a tendency to lose touch with what we loved as a child. Something about the social pressures of adolescence and professional pressures of young adulthood squeezes the passion out of us. We're taught that the only reason to do something is if we're somehow rewarded for it.
It wasn't until a couple years ago that I rediscovered how much I loved writing. The funny thing though, is that if my 8-year-old self asked my 40-year-old self "Why don't you write anymore?" and I replied, "Because I'm not good at it," or "Because nobody would read what I write," or "Because you can't make money doing that," not only would I have been completely wrong, but that 8-year-old-child version of me would have probably started crying because I'm denying him from something he dearly loves.