Few things come back to haunt me when I was a child, but there is this memory that never seems to fade out. I remember when I was three years old, mullet and all. My eyes used to be blue then, and my hair was bright blonde. I woke up earlier then my parents, because I was one of those annoying, overly anxious kids, that loved to jump on their parents bed at 6:00 Saturday morning. This Saturday wasn’t any different from the others. I told my dad to turn on some kick ass cartoons and make me some cereal. He just ignored me and zombie crawled himself into the kitchen and shook the coffee pot till it turned on. He plopped himself down on the one squeaky chair that every kitchen table has to have, and unfolded the newspaper. Now, I wasn’t much of a whiner when I was a baby, and I didn’t cry often either. If I didn’t get something I wanted, I got it myself. That being a bigger recipe for disaster then having one of your bipolar friends getting a hold of the Anarchists Cookbook, my dad quickly intervened.

"Mal, just come over here and sit down! Ill get your cereal in a moment. I want you to read something for me."

My dad had one of those really deep, bass emitting voices that made polar bears silence. Being probably about six times smaller than a polar bear at the time, you know I listened like a blind man at a strip club. I sat down on my fathers lap, and he held the newspaper in front of me. I don’t want to draw this out longer then it should be, but right then and there, my father taught me how to read. He pointed at words, helped me sound them out, and explained their definitions. For years this carried on, being the only real relationship my father and I had. Once obsessed with the English language, my fascination got deeper by writing down every new word I learned on the walls with my sisters lipstick. She was pretty pissed off, it was one of those sluttish dark red colors that hookers wear before hitting 14th street. If only they would’ve gotten past the hooligan producing antics and saw my love for writing, I never would’ve been in Juvenile Hall three times, and expelled from more schools than the STD’s George Michaels has picked up at gay bar bathrooms. All bullshit aside, those hilarious antics were the makings of what I am proud of being. A writer.

Being a writer entails all sorts of amazing gifts. Only a writer can describe a port-a-potty, and have you squeezing your nose shut as you read its description. Only a writer can turn a split second moment, into the eternity it took before he/she received their first kiss. So that being noted, why is it that we have so many claiming to be writers, and so little doing something about it? Not only is it a gift, it’s a privilege. Sure, school makes writing blow harder than a Taiwanese prostitute when you have to write a five page essay on the Declaration of Independence. So do applications when you’re trying to get that sweet ass manager position at Little Ceasars. Excuse those points, and dive into this one, be proud in knowing that you have this interest. Get excited when someone asks you to read one of your depressing poems. Jump to the opportunity of sending your work to that lonely schoolgirl in North Carolina who just can’t help but love your erotica novels. Screw the publishing, fuck the money, indulge in the chance to spread your opinions, your beliefs and even your mistakes across that lonely piece of paper, just begging for that pen to make some love to it. I can honestly say, that if there is anything I’m proud of, it was the first love poem I wrote to my school counselor. (Just by reading the first half of this little article, do I have to explain that I was in one of those ‘bad kid schools’?) I forgot its contents, but I do remember her face when she realized the angel that took the kids breath away in the poem was her, and that little boy with his lips puckered, and his cheeks redder than a sadomasochists ass was me. She smiled the type of smiles that causes O-Zone layer depletion and said in the most comfortable voice I’ve ever heard to this day, “Malachi, don’t give up on this. You’re meant to be a writer” I’m glad she didn’t say a good one, because that’s an expectation I don’t want to live up to.

Writing is an outlet. A time and place spilled across a piece of paper. An imagination getting its chance to shine. A metaphorical expression growing roots. It’s freedom defined through one word “writing” Get your hands out of your pockets and catch that pen on fire like my next door neighbors front yard. Then write an apology note, pleadingly asking for your ninja turtle toys back.