She wanted to write stories.
She wanted to have such a vivid imagination that she would be able to conjure up even the most absurd of scenarios in seconds, and then express them with strings of words that just made sense.
She wanted to write about girls and boys, men and women, going on adventures, facing challenges, falling in love. She wanted to live vicariously through her brain children, and still let them be their own people. She wanted to give a voice to the many souls living in her head. She wanted to write stories like the ones that made her fall in love with reading.
But she couldn’t. The souls in her head spoke to her without voices, and she was always bad at translating feelings into speech.
She tried. She picked apart each emotion, cut them to tiny helpings, turned them into words, and stringed those words together.
It didn’t make grammatical sense, but it was beautiful, and the souls were happy.
It was poetry.