I just want to say that I love to write.
When I say that line above think of a soft and gentle voice. I do not boast about my writing. I do not like compliments to be given. When I've received awards or praise I say thank you and little else. I share my writings, but I will not beg you to. Like every good book I've ever read, if my story is meant to find you, it will. 
I was once offered a chance to publish at 15. It was a scam that spanned my whole high school career and another year to get back the rights to my books. I have spent a long time licking my wounds and staying on the sidelines with my writing. My favorite editor, my stepsister, hasn't spoken to me much in two years. That was a low blow. She was my best friend and my cheerleader to keep going even when I thought my writing sucked and my ideas weren't original enough. Losing her was like losing a muse.
Then a while ago something happened. My little brother asked me what I was doing on my computer. To you all this may seem insignificant but it was almost like a taboo in the house. When the publishing of my book turned out to be a scam it hurt my parents as well. They didn't know what to say, so they decided not to say anything. I'd hide in my room and type and they would leave me alone and eventually I quit typing all together because I didn't want to be alone.
But back to the story. Dalton asked what I was doing on my computer. He was too young to remember when I inspired out loud to be a writer, he didn't know that for the first time in eight months I had opened a document file to look over a story, the story in fact that had been used in the publishing scam. I simply told him, 
"Writing." His eyes got so big at that it surprised me. My baby brother, younger by eleven years than I, looked at me with awe and asked, "You're a writer?"
I wanted to laugh it off, but it hurt. It reminded me suddenly of the first time I had asked the very question to someone else. Their reply, "I am a writer because I write."