The One Where I Write the Words Pt. 2

This is part 2. You may want to read Part 1 first..

Reading helped me develop my own voice as a writer. I sat at the feet of the masters: Anne Lamott, Christopher Moore, Martha Beck. Wally Lamb, Rebecca Wells, and yes, even Jane Austen. These writers made me laugh, cry and yearn to express myself. I wrote stories, some I even finished. I wrote bad poetry. I wrote in my journal. I wrote my heart.

In 1995, I found the Internet. And with it, an entire smorgasbord of information available at a moment's notice. I was in heaven. I admit that books took a backseat to the 24-hour library with no due date. I still found time for reading, that is, until my children were born. Fiction-reading gave way to books on baby care, prematurity, child development, and in time, autism, sensory integration disorder, giftedness. I didn't notice my fiction reading was waning. I was too busy. As my children grew, I introduced them to the library. Once they could write their names on the card, a whole new world opened up to them. And me, once again. I would check out books and, due to being busy, would return most unread. Poor, sad books...

Skip to the present...my blog and my writing take up a lot of space in my life. There doesn't seem to be time to read fiction. I read now for information. I read for homeschooling, I read for autism and behavior and web design. But for the most part, extra time is devoted to my writing. I rarely watch television anymore.

On Sundays after church, we often go to the bookstore to buy each of the kids a new book. I love the bookstore. I love the smell of new pages. I love the sound and the atmosphere. I love watching kids reading. And I admit, I buy books, too. For though I rarely read anymore, my heart didn't get the memo. I buy books I don't read. I have every intention of reading them when I buy them, and might get through the first few chapters, but I will get distracted fairly quickly. Real Life is a fickle lover, and he demands much of my time. There just isn't much time left over for Books. Right now, I see the book, sitting on the bench across the room. It gives me a baleful stare. "I hold great delights for you, m' lady..." Yes, books talk this way. You didn't know? You have to listen... "Come, enter me and find your bliss." And I shake my head, wave it off, yet again, in favor of the dishes or the laundry or writing.

I have a new love. It is love of the written word. Of this person: Jenn and this one: Jenn and this one: Ken and of course, this person (like she needs my little link for popularity, but she is still an influence, so I include her) Jenny And I hope to add to the conversation. The word that I write; that I so tenderly place on the page, I set it there like the newborn babe that it is. It needs care and attention. I write. I read. I rewrite. Because I? Am a wordsmith. And someday, those rectangular obelisks will contain my words. And with them, a part of me.

who are your influences? what made you a writer? when did you know?

T, who has it in her blood, I think

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