Is there a writer inside you?

It wasn’t exactly like I woke up one day knowing I wanted to be an author.  My earliest memory of the call came when I was ten years old in the fifth grade of school, during Christmas break in January 1966.  Out of the boredom of a cold winter and the monotonous routine of staying at home, the desire to write seemed to come from an underground spring deep within my being—rising up through the center of my body, bursting through my heart and flowing out my hands.  The sensation became the desire, which took fire in my mind and soul—I have to write…the stories alive inside me…it has meaning…it has purpose…its creating itself…I got to get it out of me…

What message is inside you longing to be expressed? 

soul-messageI was a shy, introspective child and a voracious reader of fairy tales and adventure stories.  I was close to my paternal Grampy Charlie.  We were kindred souls.  I confided my secret passion to write a book.  “Ah very good. I will see to it that it gets published.” Grampy Charlie mysteriously chuckled. 

 I was thrilled.  “When can you get it published?”

 “In the spring,” he promised. 

 Over the next 3 months my writer faucet turned out a 120 page handwritten manuscript—the magical, mystical tale of two runaway brother and sister orphans, who became separated by meeting a wild lion at night in the northern forest.  It was to be a hope and redemption story.  When Years later the two meet up as adults, the brother, embittered by life, becomes transformed through the healing love of his sister.  

I wrote and I wrote…while my classmates were playing games at recess…on weekends…in the evening…on spring vacation. I drew pictures to go along with the story.  Then just like that my writer faucet shut itself off at the end of April.  I never finished the book. 

 Grampy Charlie said, “I can’t get it published.  I don’t know how.  I only told you that because I wanted you to go ahead and write.” Was I disappointed?  Perhaps ten-year-old interests and puberty replaced the desire to finish the novel?  Or perhaps it was a premonition—the call of the author to be.


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