Growing up as an adopted child, I often wondered how much of my personality was predetermined in my genetic code, and how much of it was shaped and molded by my environment. I don’t know if I will ever know for sure, because there are so many things about my biological and birth families that are so eerily similar. For instance, we are all pure Nebraskans, born and raised for generations smack in the middle of the Heartland. My birthmom and adopted parents all loved horses and rodeos. My birthfather and adopted dad were both very athletic, and participated in sports throughout high school and college. My birthmom is artistic. My adopted mom is musical. My birthfather is easygoing and quick to laugh. And my adopted dad is always quick to make friends with strangers and share a joke. Somehow, I seemed to inherit the best from all of them.

The one thing that was always uniquely mine, though, was my writing. It was an addiction that started early and has continued to consume my life in one way or another since I was a child. It doesn’t matter if it is something as simple as a letter or a journal entry, or something as difficult as finishing my Master’s Thesis, I love watching every word form beneath the tip of my pen, from beginning to end. I take pride in my writing, and always try to continually improve and make it something worth reading.

It seems, perhaps, that I may have passed my writing addiction along to my daughter. All kids, at one point or another, go through the phase where they want to write or draw on things. How else would a company like Crayola stay so successful? What caught my attention though, as I watch my young daughter, is the intense focus that takes over the minute she gets a writing utensil in her little hand. Suddenly, all of her movements seem to take on an absolute deliberateness. She will spend several minutes studying the pen or crayon in her hand, rolling it around, trying out different grips, until she finds the one that just feels right. Then, and only then, will she press the tip of it against the pure white paper, pursing her lips intently as she “writes”.

Today’s 365 Project entry is dedicated to my little writer. I can’t wait to read all of your amazing stories.

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