I have been writing since I was in the 4th grade. I hated to write, but there I was, scratching my pencil across the pages one, two, ten. Only two required and yet I could not stop myself. It was not the writing I hated, but the editing, rewriting, by hand each of my words then melting them into sentences again. This uncontrollable writing started at 9.
During summers, I would begin writing as my family filled their beds and I would sit at my entertainment center which was large and move the t.v. elsewhere so I would have a 'desk' to write. My room had no windows so I would lose the night and find myself resting as my aunt would wake for the day. I was 11 and 12 and 13, and now at 28, I find myself reading, writing and editing away hour after hour then collapsing into bed only a few before I would rise again for another day of insurance, my career.
I am a writer. Not because I am the next Teasdale or Emerson, but because this thing lives in me so wildly that it has a life of its own. It is not my stolen innocence, mundane sounding career or the love I have for my precious daughters that defines me, but mostly this love of words. This love I have for them is the one constant and large thing that has been in my life the last two decades, almost as long as I have learned to write at all.
My little is now 7 1/2 and I pray that of all the gifts I have to offer from my telling blue eyes and large smile, tender heart, crazy curls and kindness, my love for words is the one I pray that she will inherit the most. With the support I did not have, I pray that I can give her wings to use this gift to take her to other worlds anytime she needs to go.