Did everyone make it through April Fools’ Day? I’m not a big fan of being got, so I’m glad no one tried it with me.
Other than being an acceptable time to trick folks April is National Poetry Month #NaPoMo
Here’s my first poem for the month. A haiku:
Your eyes are the sun
Warming my core so deeply
Gaze upon me, look
Have a great day! Happy National Poetry Month
Did you ever read Bridge to Terabithia or Tuck Everlasting? What about The Phantom Tollbooth? Any of the Ramona Quimby books?
I did. I remember reading all of those books. While some of the details of what goes on in those stories are hazy, I remember how they made me feel. Adventurous, brave, curious. I couldn’t get enough. I wanted to “do that”, create worlds and stories that readers just didn’t want to put down.
It’s funny. All I’ve ever wanted to do is write and I’ve managed to do so in some way for a while now. I’ve been lucky, besides the time I got caught writing on the living room wall with a red lipstick, that my love of reading and writing has been praised and encouraged.
I know that I write because I truly enjoy it. I feel the most like myself when I’m actively putting words down to figure out what’s happening or could happen in a story. Writing is also therapeutic and healing to me.
But when did this love turn into the thing that I must do? When did it get serious for me? Was it gradually or all at once?
Recently the Lit Hub article The Books That Made Your Favorite Writers Want to Write came across my Facebook timeline. Writers like Sherman Alexie and Zadie Smith know the exact book that made them want to be writers. How cool is that? Something locked into place for them and they knew or decided that they wanted to “do that” too.
The last few days I’ve been wondering which book(s) made me want to write. Was it Ramona Quimby, Age 8? Onion John? Maybe a short story from the anthologies I read in high school. An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge, maybe? Was it poetry in college? Nikki Giovanni’s Ego-Tripping, perhaps?
At this point it would be nice to know what tipped the scales for me, but I don’t think it really matters.
I’m writing. I am a writer.