Good day everyone. Mother chose to call me Morgan, so I assume that you all may also have the pleasure of doing so. I am the baby of the blog, below my cousin Lexi who's vast writing skills surpass mine, and I'm still wondering why I was invited but thanks J. What I lack in experience I make up for in enthusiasm. Humor me now; I'm going to answer a question that no single person has asked me and you're just going to have to deal with it. "Morgan! How on earth did you find out that you love writing?" I do not love writing. Love is an insult to this sheer passion and joy I have towards the written word. Likewise, It happened in a classroom believe it or not. I was asked to describe a color, any color, without being too unoriginal. I chose blue; it just seemed like it was filled with emotion. This is what I presented my peers and educator:
"Blue is that chill that bites at your cheeks on a rainy day.
Blue is the weight you bear on your shoulders as you're slumped in your seat in the third row of your uncle's funeral.
Blue is the look in your eyes after someone tells you how terrible they believe you to be, even though you had no harbinger to prepare yourself for this reaction to you asking "how was your day?".
Blue is the hue of your old friends skin as you identify them in the morgue after they had been shot for being in the wrong place at the wrong time."
Not great, but deep nonetheless... I suppose. I received quite a fuss after that, write this, write that, etcetera etcetera. Not understanding that this was halfway decent, I ignored the comments and just decided to write for myself, till now. I use to have all these stories and plot lines in my head, a never ending story if you will, they'd keep me distracted if I was upset and I wanted more from it. So, I began to start writing it down. There was just one problem with it; it's terrible. Much more high and mighty in my mind. There's much work to be done indeed and I intend to have it finished eventually.
I'm from Oklahoma; I've been under quite a bit of stress at the moment. So if this is absolutely retched, feel free to let me know. A tornado hit last Sunday and Monday; leaving devastation and reform in it's path. It's surreal until you witness it. Yesterday, I passed a funeral for one of the twenty-four people who had lost their lives. This was the funeral that Westboro "Baptist Church" was supposedly going to protest. Driving by the cemetery, there was a very long line of gargantuan bikers there to ward off the cult members. Across the street from them were others, holding signs that read "God loves Oklahoma" and "Pray for Moore." I'm proud of my home; everyone here is not as selfish and mean as I am. If you've never heard the sound of a tornado, then you have no understanding of just how frightening it really is. I've been through my fair share, including May 3rd, 1999. The story is that my mother was holding me in her arms as my dad was driving us to the HighSchool where we'd be safe. Upon exiting the vehicle, the tornado touched the ground and my parents ran for our lives.
I look forward to getting to know more writers, experienced and not as much through this blog. If there are any other young adults writing for young adults, please contact me. I have many questions to ask; and I'd like someone to bond with other than Lexi.