I'm Not Good at Sports & I Can't Dance.

The first time I played softball, I got a black eye in the first five minutes of practice and had to sit in the back of my coach's van. The shag green carpet scratched my legs and I was sweaty and hot. When my mom arrived later to pick me up, I swore I'd never play again, but every week she made me go.  My team, the Green Tornadoes, was really good, probably because I stayed on the bench the entire season.   I didn't mind. It gave me time to think about what I wanted to write about later.

I didn't fare much better at dancing, but my mother made me twirl a baton for four long years anyway. One evening at dance practice I finally had enough of Miss Misty's incessant nagging for me to pick up the tempo, point my toes, and be careful not to hit Amy Peacock in the head, again.  At nine I was a meek kid, but that afternoon, I was the queen of drama,  as I slung my baton across the room and stomped to the bathroom, where I locked myself in until my disappointed mother  picked me up. Of course,  I didn't care about being alone in the bathroom because I could think about how I would write and rewrite my dramatic exit.

So I write because I am clumsy and graceless; I have no hand-eye coordination.  Words on a page won't give me black eyes or leave external bruises on the dancer next to me.  I write because my imagination is bigger than my physical abilities and words are *usually* safer than batons.  Oh, and when it came to my writing, the words I penned never once disappointed my mother. 

The End

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