A long-long time ago, there was a boy who asked for a kiss and I refused. It would not be difficult to imagine a young virgin overflowing with insecurities. It would be understandable to know the warmth of such desires for a young man, but an ounce of nervousness would always prevail over a passionate whim of another more confident (regardless of how heated and attractive the moment was). Perhaps another who gave in to the moment, his heart would have exploded with excitement. My heart grew a bitter taste for the first boy to offer his warm inviting lips.

The memory exists like a shadow but I won’t forget.

We were watching “The Lord of the Flies” when he appeared by my side and kneel down. He looked up at me with a charming smile. There was a nerving playfulness dancing in his eyes. He calmly said, “I want to kiss you.” I only stared back, silent and shocked. The rest of the class turn their attention towards us, ignoring the movie. Our teacher sat paralyzed. My heart did pounded but not for the kiss. In a terrible moment, I existed for the class. I watched the boy’s face glow as a corner of smile shifted into a smirk. I had a thought, this boy who I hardly know wants a kiss. I could only see a dog lapping into his bowl with such hunger for attention. “No,” was all I said. He begged and whimpered and even tried to steal a kiss. I got up and switched to another desk. My body burning from the quiet gaze of my classmates. He followed and continued his pursuit. Eventually he gave up and left the classroom. I felt exhausted even though the ordeal was probably ten minutes or less. It was such an odd moment in my usual daily routine. I couldn’t remember if the boy was even in my class to begin with. The bell rang and everyone left as the teacher came up to me and told me I had wonderful self-control. I never saw it like that but it didn’t matter now. My only thoughts was surviving the rest of the school year with this hanging over me. No one bothered me or asked about it. That was odd to me yet I was willing to be grateful for it. The experience made me feel twice as isolated. I continued the rest of my school years as a quiet shy person.

I relinquished my first kiss in college. It was rushed and passionless but there have been wonderful kisses down the years of my life.

The rat (that I am) would come to question his ability to write. His words has a shifting balance and could only skim across his desired expressions. Perhaps, he thought, all writers go through this cycle. A compelling habit to re-write the same sentence many times until, with some frustrations, it was good; almost great but not perfect. The rat has no doubt that he would re-write.

A thought occurred earlier in his day, “A writer should write.” It was a skill meant to be practiced, regardless of any prior talent. Jealousy over the prolific(s) was a crutch and the rat has no excuse. He should not fear originality. His words would be compared to the words of others before and after him. It would do him good to embrace each thought, word, and sentence as his own. Similarity could be a kindred soul. The rat should not feel alone.

It was a desire to create and express. He would share his completed writes and entertain any who desired. When another enjoyed his efforts, it left him with a wonder glow within. That was when he understood, the rat was a writer.

There will be no more doubt, squeak!