“Perhaps I write for no one. Perhaps for the same person children are writing for when they scrawl their names in the snow.” – Margaret Atwood
From an early age, I remember thinking I could write. Curly q’s and flying w’s donned blank pages. I wondered why nobody could understand what I was trying to say. Perhaps, even now, that I can spell, people still scratch their heads and mumble to themselves.
This is an image I snapped, while walking the beach along Lake Michigan. What do you see? Can you hear anything? Memories?