gray daisies

At the tender age of seven, I took it upon myself to write my very first book.  I illustrated it, and covered it with construction paper, printing out the title and all three of my names (yes, even back then!).  I still have it.  And, lately I’ve considered framing it in a shadow box to hang up as a reminder of who am I.

I am a writer.  Words bubble up from my soul.  I watch, observe and imagine more than most people (except for my fellow writer’s).  Stories appear everywhere, characters playing through my mind, introducing themselves, asking to be tucked away to wait for their stories to unfold.

I wrote and read my way through high school.  And one would think that someone like me would have been a Literature major, but no.  I went to a very competitive engineering and science school.  Mostly because my friends and family questioned what I would do with a Literature major, besides teach (which I knew I didn’t want to do).

In college, I wrote technical papers aplenty and found a niche that continued into my career.  Technical people typically do not write well.  So between my natural ability with words and my desire to actually sit down and document technical processes, well, I was in high demand.

Then, about seven or eight years ago, I started feeling out of sorts.  A book called “The Artist’s Way“, by Julia Cameron, came into my life in a round about way.  That book reacquainted me with my creative self.  And, over time, my life began to change in small and sometimes dramatic ways.

There was a particular poem that Julia Cameron wrote that I printed out and hung in my office.  Only a handful of coworkers actually took the time to read it, and out of those people, only one person commented.  He asked if I had written it.  I chuckled something like “I wish”.  He looked me straight in the eyes and told me, “Stop wishing that you were a writer, and just start writing.”

That comment sparked a conversation that lasted over an hour.  This man, a co-worker that I had only spoken to briefly here and there about work, became my messenger, my guide.  What he said to me was so off-the-cuff and honest, it pierced right through my daily-life filters and sunk in, deep.  Here I am, many years later, still feeling the spot in my soul where his words landed.

I don’t know where I’m headed in this journey of words –  my words, my stories, my truth.  I’m not sure I am supposed to know where I’m going (are any of us?!).  So I will continue to write and read and follow along this winding path of words.

I would like to share the poem that started this journey for me – it so perfectly puts into words what I feel about being a writer.

Words For It, by Julia Cameron

I wish I could take language
And fold it like cool, moist rags.
I would lay words on your forehead.
I would wrap words on your wrists.
“There, there,” my words would say –
Or something better.
I would ask them to murmur,
“Hush” and “Shh, shhh, it’s all right.”
I would ask them to hold you all night.
I wish I could take language
And daub and soothe and cool
Where fever blisters and burns,
Where fever turns yourself and you.
I wish I could take language
And heal the words that were the wounds
You have no names for.

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Have you ever had one of those “a-ha” moments?  Doesn’t this poem just speak volumes about what it is to be a writer?  Do you have a favorite poem, or book, or piece of art that serves as your inspiration?   Did you major in Literature in college?  When did you write your first book (as a child, teen?)

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