TBPopper

'It is not the critic who counts, not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly... who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions, who spends himself in a worthy cause, who at best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who have never known neither victory nor defeat.'
-Theodore Roosevelt

I'm presently twenty-two, although my birthday rapidly approaches in February. I enjoy writing. I do it all for myself, and at the faint dream to be published some day.

I hold no illusions, and am acutely aware that my writing is nothing short of the angst-filled teenage nonsense that I expect from people half my age (maybe not from an 11 year old, but I'm certain you know what I mean). My heart is old, and my life falls apart around me, but what can you do? You strive forward, praying and waiting.

I don't have a passion for writing. I'm a terrible cook. I have a lovely bass voice, but really, what's that mean in the scheme of things? What more is there to know about a person?

"He who conceals his sins does not prosper,
but whoever confesses and renounces them finds mercy. " -Proverbs 28:13