I was the child who tested my mother's patience by refusing to draw on either side of a paper with visible erasure marks, the ghosts of crooked lines and ovals that should have been circles.
I was the child who entreated my mother to transform my coloring books into color-by-number after I'd finished replicating the front and back cover illustrations.
I was the student who would re-write my notes half-way through class, when I finally deduced the organization of my teacher's lesson. Or because my handwriting wasn't neat.
And I am the writer who feels compelled to un-publish my past posts and begin with a fresh page every time that I change my mind about what this blog could/should/will be, so that when I finally know for sure, it will look as though I really knew all along.
But I'm resisting the urge, especially since my first two posts, "How to Wear a Sari" and "A lot of different Annes", (which, I confess, I have rewritten twice already) still represent the core of what I am writing for, and here's why:
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