Why She Writes

What makes someone become a writer? I have wondered that throughout my life. Are they born with a certain fire that drives them to put pen to paper, (so to speak) or are they developed into these creative beings over a process of learning and experiences in their lifetime? I seem to remember always having a desire to write. As long as I could read, I guess. I have several grandchildren who create stories, in fact entire worlds, and they are quite young. I do know that most writers are avid readers so it seems that the two do go hand-in-hand. 

I remember vividly going to school for the first time. Due to circumstances in my life, I did not attend kindergarten. It was not a requirement at that period of time so first grade was my first experience of organized learning. I was living with my grandparents and my older sister was already in the 4th grade. I was incredibly envious of her ability to read and was so excited at the prospect of going to school myself to be able to acquire this amazing ability. Six years old and already in love with just the idea of books. I came home from my first day of class with Miss St. Clair, (yes, to this day I remember her name and can still see her face in my mind’s eye) and was deeply disappointed and not entirely convinced it was worth my time to return. I had spent an entire day in this room with this woman and over 20 strange children without learning to read. What an epic waste of time! I did, however, return. And in addition to learning to recognize the primary colors, shapes and numbers, I reveled in the adventures of Sally, Dick and Jane, along with their dog Spot and the adorable kitten Puff. By the time I was in the 4th grade I had surpassed all of my classmates in reading levels and my teacher would send me to the library to read during reading time. What a glorious escape this place became! The librarian helped me discover the many genres of books, and I disappeared into the world of Gothic Romance via Victoria Holt. I fell in love with mysteries by eating up books by Agatha Christie. She also steered me into a few of the classics and I read my longest book ever in the 4th grade when I received Little Women for my 10th birthday. In junior high my father bought me a horse and the stipulation was that she was to be ridden regularly. This was not always the most pleasant of exercises, given we lived in the Pacific Northwest. She was a gentle, patient friend however. Many days I would put a bareback pad on her and we would meander up the road to a vacant field where I would allow her to graze on field grass as I turned around and lay on her back with my most recent favorite book propped on her rump and would read. We were both content. And my father pacified that I was indeed ‘exercising’ my horse. 

My love for reading caused a great admiration and envy for writers. I worked on our high school paper for the last two years of my time there. Reporting just dry happenings was not my desire though. I took the editorial page over. Even if the opinions expressed were not my own, I expressed them with conviction and passion. Meh. I just wanted to write. Again, circumstances dictated my path and even had I wanted to pursue a career, practicality steered me otherwise. Not to mention there was not an abundance of mentors in that era directing us in any given direction. I ended up as a receptionist/bookkeeper in a law firm until I headed off to a Bible College for a few years. Then it was marriage and babies. Not a terrible thing, mind you. The best years of my life followed. Filled with blessings beyond imagination. An incident during this time has stuck with me for years. I have a sister who is 10 years my junior. I had two small children while she was in junior high school. I attended some event at her school, I have no memory of what it was. But this I do remember. I bumped into my 8th grade English teacher, Mrs. Childers. I remembered her vividly, and was not sure if she would remember me. Oh, but she did! When I asked her if she recalled me, she did with pleasure. The conversation went something like this:

“Do you remember the short story you wrote the year that you were in my class. About a girl and her horse?”

“Um, not really.” 

“Well, I asked you if I could keep it.”

“You did? Really? I don’t remember.”

“Well, I did, and I read it to my class every year as an example of the perfect short story. I do hope you are still writing, because you were born to write.”

Well…it inspired me to write. Some. But I was knee deep in diapers, potty training, and youth ministry.  Then came home-schooling.

We had years of ministry with youth that bring us blessings to this day. I homeschooled our three children and wouldn’t trade those years for love or money. And I did write. I was able to use what I have since discovered is a gift that God gave me to write devotions and Bible studies that were used for teens and women over the past 40+ years. 

But now? What happens now?

I’ve considered the three servants of the rich man. You know, the ones he gave the talents to and went away. Two of them invested them and were able to give their master profits when he returned. The third? He was timid, afraid, so he buried his talent in the ground for safekeeping. Afraid of losing it, he felt it best to just hide it so nothing bad would happen to it. His master was more than disappointed with him. I realized a while back that I was in great danger of becoming that third servant. God had given me a talent, never mind how big, small or of what worth. He gave it to me not to bury in the ground, or in my case write in journals and notebooks and stuff in closets. Do I want to stand before Him one day and see disappointment? I am not responsible for the return…only for what I do with what He gave me. So…I write. The voices that I’ve heard for years in my head? The conversations that have been created in my quiet moments? Things that may make me a bit odd, a little weird to some maybe, those are just a part of the creative process to story telling. Stories that deep within me are wanting to be told. And whether I believe anyone wants, or needs, to hear them, I will tell them. 

 Because I am a writer. So I will write.