I always wanted to write, or so it seems after some mildy revisionist remembering. In middle school I started filling stolen exercise-books with anguished poems and reflections. I didn't excel during class. I was a lousy speller, almost certainly dyslexic but not diagnosed. Despite being a prolific reader my linguistic skills were considered "below average". I envied and tried to copy those of my classmates whose work was exalted and read aloud. Eventually, unable to deconstruct their success, I became fatalistic about the whole thing: some had it, some did not.
Later I wrote many more anguished poems, and later still I studied journalism at the University of S. It didn't stick. Oh, I still wanted to write, but the intense competition made me shrink into myself. I ended up a programmer in Silicon Valley. No need to ask tough questions of a computer.
Still I want to write, even though I find myself in a foreign country using a language not my own. I want to learn.