I am a writer. Not by trade or degree but more by instinct and intention.
While attending an English writing course at university, I realized quite quickly that my constitution was not strong enough to withstand constructive criticism. I felt my writing was good, not great, but good enough not to be corrected in any shape or manner. I sat there, holding my breath, waiting for the round robin of commentary to wrap up on my submitted prose. After stomaching a couple classes, I promptly changed my major from English Writing to British Literature; why endure the critiquing of my own composition when I could spend my university years critiquing the texts of others?
I quickly fell in love. In love with the customs of 19th century Europe, more specifically English literature. I was enamored with the themes, the customs, the words. The words were beautiful. Not colorful, but charming and elegant. The stories themselves were glamorous but simple, making it fairly easy to get transported to another time. So I read and I wrote and I read some more. I would complete my assigned eight to ten page essays the evening before they were due, working early into the morning hours, for after all, I am a writer, remember?
But am I a writer? Or just a really, really good reader?
It was writing that has brought me solace since I was young, writing that got me through some pretty treacherous times and writing that brings me peace. So here I am, in all my glory, writing to you, to me, to my girls, to my husband. Putting it all down on paper, releasing it into the world. It is so freeing, not to be heard, but to speak – that’s the real magic.
I am a teacher by trade but a mother first. Having children has been the single most difficult, daunting, and yet, most rewarding adventure that I have ever chosen to embark upon, with marriage being a very close second. I have no idea what I am doing. Motherhood and marriage are not like writing. The days and weeks and months and years do not flow smoothly. You cannot take breaks when you have writer’s block or when your fingers and hands have exhausted every last ounce of energy. Raising children, raising children well, is not for the faint of heart. Committing to be another’s partner for the rest of your days, is also not a smooth journey.
So I write. I write to remember. I write to forget. I write to share what I have learned along the way. I write so that my baby girls may one day read and relate and seek to discover a home for their solace, for their joys. I write for me.
