I always said my dad taught me to write, such was the oppressive and always-tense-bordering-on-violent relationship we had when I was a kid. Basically, I learned to never speak out, learned to never argue, was always too fearful to challenge him, so I went inward, to my love of books and stories, and found a way to express my thoughts and feelings on paper rather than through the spoken word.
He always insisted I redraft too, when I wrote my homework or a letter. Redraft. Redraft. Get it right. Do it right.
It stays with you, your childhood. Not a burden, not a chore, just a map of where you’ve been, recorded in scars and old photographs.
But you move on.