I've always wanted to be an author, since I was seven or eight I wrote the cutest stuff, then I wrote about the world and what I thought the issues were and how maybe if people gave up two seconds of their day to help someone else, pick up something someone dropped at the market, donate to charity, then the world would be such a more inviting place.
At fifteen my mother promised we would look for an editor and a publisher for my poetry and vast collection of short stories.
Three years later and my dreams of ever getting published are totally shot, when the depression hit me I started writing more depressing pieces, and my mother of course didn't approve of them.
But it didn't matter anyway, I knew she was past the promise...And I know for a fact I can't do this all on my own, I'm too much of a chicken to call people and send pieces in to be viewed..