I've loved stories for so long, I have no recollection when that love began.
My favorite early childhood memories were snuggling close to my father while he read to my sister and me, and playing doll (regular-sized dolls, miniature dolls, paper dolls) games with my sister because of the elaborate storylines we created for them, elaborate in terms of back stories, plot lines, families (most of them large) and volume (we had so many dolls, we peopled entire towns).
Nothing beats burying myself into a couch or bed with a good book.
As a family, we retell events in storytelling fashion. I've had friends whose tale of themselves are a bit tall, but they are such engaging storytellers, I don't mind being a rapt audience.
That love for reading stories and hearing stories spilled into writing them. I don't recall when I started writing short stories and sharing them with friends, but definitely by mid-childhood.
People never shared back. That's when I learned not everyone writes for fun.
I was thirteen when I wrote my first novella, all one hundred and forty-three pages of it, longhand, in a notebood, while lying across my bedroom floor, cheek propped in one hand. I left it out for someone to find. A family member tore into it in the very worst way. I threw it away and didn't write anything again for a very long time.
I've come a bit down the road since then.
I can't imagine not writing and sharing stories.
I see feature stories everywhere. Everyone has an interesting story, and I can usually find the write way to relate it. The only challenge is figuring out where to put all those stories and when to write them all. There's only so many pages in the features section; there's only so many hours in a day.
I'm so engrossed in the story in my mind, the one I wanted to write so I could read it. I want to write it at the speed I read it. When I feel progress is too slow, I go back and reread. I'm amazed at the progression: of ideas, abilities, and production.
There is nothing like approaching a computer with a handful of notes from interviews or jumbled ideas in my mind and create order from chaos.
So although my talents are few, I feel that when God gifted me with three purposes in life, He compensated for their small number by making them elastic.
The adventures I have experienced and the knowledge I have gained, these would not have been possible without motherhood. I have crossed a bend in the journey, but I am by no means off the road yet.
The volume of people I have met (real and imaginary) who have shared initimate details of their lives, this would not have been possible without writing. This is a continual winding road.
I'm up for the next purpose, the next adventure.
My favorite early childhood memories were snuggling close to my father while he read to my sister and me, and playing doll (regular-sized dolls, miniature dolls, paper dolls) games with my sister because of the elaborate storylines we created for them, elaborate in terms of back stories, plot lines, families (most of them large) and volume (we had so many dolls, we peopled entire towns).
Nothing beats burying myself into a couch or bed with a good book.
As a family, we retell events in storytelling fashion. I've had friends whose tale of themselves are a bit tall, but they are such engaging storytellers, I don't mind being a rapt audience.
That love for reading stories and hearing stories spilled into writing them. I don't recall when I started writing short stories and sharing them with friends, but definitely by mid-childhood.
People never shared back. That's when I learned not everyone writes for fun.
I was thirteen when I wrote my first novella, all one hundred and forty-three pages of it, longhand, in a notebood, while lying across my bedroom floor, cheek propped in one hand. I left it out for someone to find. A family member tore into it in the very worst way. I threw it away and didn't write anything again for a very long time.
I've come a bit down the road since then.
I can't imagine not writing and sharing stories.
I see feature stories everywhere. Everyone has an interesting story, and I can usually find the write way to relate it. The only challenge is figuring out where to put all those stories and when to write them all. There's only so many pages in the features section; there's only so many hours in a day.
I'm so engrossed in the story in my mind, the one I wanted to write so I could read it. I want to write it at the speed I read it. When I feel progress is too slow, I go back and reread. I'm amazed at the progression: of ideas, abilities, and production.
There is nothing like approaching a computer with a handful of notes from interviews or jumbled ideas in my mind and create order from chaos.
So although my talents are few, I feel that when God gifted me with three purposes in life, He compensated for their small number by making them elastic.
The adventures I have experienced and the knowledge I have gained, these would not have been possible without motherhood. I have crossed a bend in the journey, but I am by no means off the road yet.
The volume of people I have met (real and imaginary) who have shared initimate details of their lives, this would not have been possible without writing. This is a continual winding road.
I'm up for the next purpose, the next adventure.
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