Ever since I saw the Sydney Opera House lit up on my mother’s analog TV in 2000, and saw the Olympic rings splashed everywhere, I’ve spent the four years between the games, waiting in fidgety anticipation for the summer when it’d all happen again. From the showboating of the opening and closing ceremonies, to the passion, dedication and pure athleticism displayed throughout the games themselves, I was riveted to the TV for as many events as possible.

A a nine year old island girl whose geography lessons had yet to reveal how many countries there were in the world, what amazed me most was the parade of the participating nations. So many flags waved all in one place. I am still awed now, because the Olympic Games bring together nations of all economic standing and languages, races and cultures, religions and government. It creates a unity that is rarely produced by any other medium. No matter how different the people, the athletes, and the proud supporters back home, we’re all cheering about the same thing.

I have had a chronic case of writer’s block. The kind of writer’s block that leaves a blank Word document open on your laptop for weeks on end. The cursor blinked rhythmically like the tapping foot of a school marm, making me feel like an incompetent idiot. Trying to appease the impatient cursor, I’d tap out a few words, then smash the backspace button and make my way over to Tumblr where I could hide amongst the other stifled artists.

That’s the thing about writer’s block. It can kick you in the knees and leave you sitting on your ass, feeling like a failure. And that’s exactly what it did to me. I had a serious crisis of self-doubt considering that I had already put three years and thousands of dollars into pursuing a career in writing. I’d been reduced to stalking my dream of being a writer, sort of shuffling along behind it at just fast enough of a pace to keep it in sight; but active pursuit, there hasn’t been any of that lately.

Grown women are waging a war on girlhood. Gone are the days of styling Barbie hair and baking cookies in your Easy Bake oven. Now little girls are clicking away with lacquered nails on the keys of the latest cell phone and fussing in the mirror with lip gloss and mascara. No more playing dress up in mom’s high heels and sultry dresses. Now sex appeal comes in size 6-14. Little girls are growing up way too fast. They are womanish, but not mature; the distinction between the two is immensely significant.

Maturity is a matter of understanding responsibility, grasping life lessons, and handling situations gracefully and wisely. A girl who is womanish has the appearance of a woman, in dress and manner, but she is really just a lost child. We are facing a generation of Lost Girls, but unlike Peter Pan’s companions, these girls are desperate to grow up long before they need to.