In my mind, I am sitting in a clean, quiet room and I am writing. In my mind I am filled with brilliant thoughts and every word I write is beautiful and artfully expressed. In my mind, there are countless numbers of people waiting to hear my next words, they will be awed by me and I would change lives.
In reality, this is the fifth idea I have explored, every other idea has fallen flat. In reality my kids are screaming or fighting or both and I have to stop often to quiet them down. In reality, I write to an audience I am not sure is there and most times it is a struggle to get the ideas locked in my head down on paper and even when I do, there are sometimes typos and grammatical errors.
I am a writer!
Am I a writer? Truth is I don’t know. When I was younger, I used to dream about writing children’s books, ever since I read Louise Fitzhugh’s Harriet the Spy. I fell in love with the characters, especially the boy with the purple socks. I loved that someone created a character that w unique but familiar. I didn’t know him, but I felt like I did.
As a child, I fell in love with the written word. I spent a lot of time reading alone. I wasn’t exactly lonely but I often felt alone. Reading for me gave me a host of imaginary friends with whom I could share adventures. I remember climbing the Swiss Alps with Heidi by Johanna Spyri and trying to outsmart Teppy with Beppo in C. Everard Palmer’s The Wooing of Beppo Tate. A
nd as I got older, I would sneak and hide to read my older sisters’ copies of Harlequin romance novels and my juvenile world expanded to include made up crushes and love interests. My imaginary friends helped me through scary times, sad times and if it weren’t for them, I don’t know how I would have coped.
Today, as I eagerly await the release of my children’s book, I feel the weight of all that reading has meant to me
bearing down on my mind. Reading gave me an escape when I couldn’t cope with what was happening around me. It allowed me to see a world beyond my own and afforded me the opportunity to role play with sides of myself that I wouldn’t have known existed. Maybe one day a young girl will read my book, as she tries to figure out what will come next for her. Maybe a parent will sit their child on their lap and read my words to him. Or maybe no one will ever read my words. Maybe this is the foolish dreams of my young self.
And yet, I write. I don’t know why other than I feel compelled to. I do not know if my words are being seen or appreciated but I have to write t
Maybe writing does for me as an adult what reading did for me as a child. Maybe through writing, I will feel less alone. Again, I am not exactly lonely but it is hard for me at times to know exactly where I fit in outside of my family. Already writing has connected me to some amazing people who I otherwise would never have known and I am so grateful for that.
So now, I have come full circle. As in my childhood, I am once again falling in love with the written word. This time, I hope to be the one to create impact and tell stories that my children would love for years to come. I hope that I would craft characters that are easy to identify with and impossible not to love.
Much like it took me through difficult times before, I will rely again on the written word to help me navigate new adult challenges of marriage, loss and motherhood. If I am lucky, through writing I may get the chance to rehearse sides of my self that I am not yet award of. Maybe that is all there is to being a writer. Using words to release emotion that otherwise would have no hope of being expressed.So please allow me, typos and all, to share with you my love for writing. After all, we are already friends my mind.