This was my first page. My first time I'd thought. My first word. This is my first spoken sentence, my first written prose. And it was all magnified. I couldn't stop my fingers from fleeting across the keys, or my mind to stop thinking. I couldn't even feel myself commanding the thumb to press the space bar or telling my forefinger to press the "F" key. This was my first story, and I would make it a good one. I would write, because I want to make something of myself. I'd write for what I thought I could do. And for that, I thought it would be enough.

It started with a not-so idea, a spike of the mind. Not a lightbulb as much as a lantern. A dim, unembodied picture going through my head that was really unusable, but I could try what I would. It was a photograph of a runner, blurred in the middle, where she was zooming past. It was a start. And it would be the start of my literary career.

It was like a baby's first sentence: it wasn't so much a huge step, as it was not complicated, but for everyone around her, it was the world. Her first sentence! What a feat! And so early on, too! To anyone who would witness this, it would seem to be a point in a lifetime when the baby would start to turn into a toddler. In other words, this was when the baby had started to grow, mature, turn older. This is when they start their life. But to that baby, it was just another thing. Yes, it was an accomplishment, but after that, there are more accomplishments to make and more battles to win. There's more to life than one word, as there is more to a writer's career than its first piece of prose. This is the start of such a story.

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