Writing Whiz?

People keep telling me that if I ever wrote a book, they'd read it. I say, great, I don't have much of anything to say, but if I ever do, you'll be the first to know.
How did I ever learn to write? Sometimes I wonder. My mom asked me yesterday how it was possible that I, growing up as many places and in as many different languages as I did, not learning how to read in English 'til I was 6? 7? - how it was possible that I should have enough mastery of the English language to be able to help other people write academic papers?
At first, I didn't know. I cited my English prof from Spanish HS who offered, out of the blue, to train me for the English lit O-levels. Then I realized - I used to read like crazy. I read so much I got sick of stories - nothing could surprise me anymore. Good stuff, classic stuff, stuff that was too old for me, mystery stuff, fantasy stuff... whatever I could lay my hands on, really. And I wrote. I wrote blogs, as has been previously noted, and journal entries, and not much more. I wrote to please myself. Did I have anything to say beyond things that were happening in my own little life? Hah! Guess. I'll give you a hint- I still don't! I don't know why you're reading this stuff, seriously. But did I learn from these things, or merely develop? (watch out, chicken-and-the-egg-problem at twelve o'clock!) It's possible that I just engaged in those activities because the written word has always spoken to me in ways that other artforms never revealed.

But anyway - *end of pointless introspection* - now, here I sit, waiting for my next pupil to walk through the door. Life is truly strange.


I'm not gonna be an author, y'all. Not unless I seriously have Something to SAY. And if that ever happens, the world better watch out, 'cause come hell or high water, it'll be said, and my intended audience will listen.