I was born a writer. Just like I was born with brown eyes. In 5th grade when we were assigned to write a poem with an illustration, everyone wrote about the spring, flowers, stars, the city, the country. I wrote about racism. My illustration was a black silhouette pasted against white paper. My teacher promptly sent me home with a note for my parents, accusing me of plagiarism.

I continued to write now and then, winning the occasional essay contest, bringing home a poetry prize, encouraged by my mother. But it wasn’t until I turned 14, that I really started to pick up steam. That’s alsowhen I was diagnosed with epilepsy.

Did I become a writer (which I still am, professionally) because I had epilepsy or was it a mere coincidence?

That seems to be up for conjecture…

There can definitely be a creative side to the electrical mischief that…