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Writer's Log, June 2: Bring Your B Game! | Elizabeth Percer
For the first thirty years of my life, I didn't really write. Even though I knew I was a writer from the time I learned how to read, my ideas about being a writer were so woefully misguided that I never really got anything off the ground. Sure, I was turning out tortured, plotless pages about people being lost at sea in elementary school, and tortured, abstract poetry about trees in high school (I wish I were joking), but these pages only emerged when the urge to write became so desperate that even my worst inhibitions couldn't get in the way. Fortunately, life handed me my ass several times over when I was in my early thirties, and my need to write became so acute I had to figure out a way to do it more regularly. The problem was, I had two small children on my hands and was finishing up a doctorate, and even five minutes to myself felt like a miracle. Or at least that's what I thought the problem was. I also thought the problem was that I might not be as talented as I hoped