I have always loved books and words. Even longer than I can remember, apparently. I was at my parent’s house for dinner recently and was asked by a guest if I had always wanted to write. Before I could answer her, my dad answered, “Yes.” He explained that when I was two, I wanted a ‘high piter’ (typewriter) and that when I was three and four, I could read words on the billboards around town. This was the first time I’d ever heard this bit of news and it took me by surprise. How does a two year old know what a typewriter is and what it does? Did I know it was used for writing stories? I have no idea. I don’t even know if I knew anybody that had one….I need to get more details from my parents. It was startling to hear this in my 40s.
My standard answer used to be “Since the 4th grade when a friend and I had competed against each other to read the most books. We were required to read four a month, but she and I read over one hundred that school year. We also watched a movie about either Judy Blume or Beverly Cleary (I can’t remember which) and her life as an author and how she received letters from readers.” I have many stories started in notebooks and journals from over the years and now have several novels in progress.
I guess this strong passion/calling, whatever you want to call it, runs strong in my blood and why only for short periods of time I can give it up. Like during the pregnancy of each of my children or the summer we moved across the Midwest or when my first husband died. It’s almost like a magnetic attraction and I can’t resist its pull.
And for some reason, I love old manual typewriters, either pictures of them or the real thing. And the sound of their keys clacking—is there a program for my laptop I could install? I almost bought an old Royal at an auction last year, but changed my mind. I doubt my fingers are strong enough to make one work!
I’ll keep my fingers dancing across the keyboard unless my calling changes.