I remember exactly what I was doing thirteen years ago at this very moment: sitting in front of a keyboard typing my heart out.
I was days from turning eleven, and for some reason this was absolutely the age I’d been waiting to turn since birth. I was very excited to be eleven. Things happened when you were eleven.
I was so excited in fact, that I remember not being able to sleep for the entire week leading up to August 8. But who needs sleep when your ten and 358 days old? Instead, I was up to the wee hours of the morning, every night that week, working on one of the first stories that I remember. I’m not going to share the story with you. It was something an eleven-year-old would write, and probably pretty stupid.
So as I sit here now (not exactly excited to turn 24, but with still another story on my fingertips), as the clock pushes 1am, on August 7, I am reminded of how things don’t really change that much.
Well, except for the typewriter I had back then.