Just the other night my husband asked me why didn’t I write anymore. Out of the blue. I didn’t know he cared. I have written in some facet or another since I was a kid. I used to write short stories and circulate them among my school friends who were completely amused because I would insert each of them into the stories. I would also write poems and enter whatever contests were being held. I won first place when I was in second grade for my very elementary poem about the month of June. I think it encouraged me to continue. I also had a father and grandfather who were inspirational because they were writers. As I aged and became a wife and mother my interests changed and writing was put to the side. I was more devoted to doing all that a mommy does. My love for writing crept back in over time.
I used to think that to be a ‘real’ writer one must be published, but I have since determined that to be incorrect. A writer writes. Period. A writer has a story to tell. I have always understood from taking various writing courses in college that a writer writes about what he/she knows.
I like those things to which I can relate. Real. While real is painful it can also be hopeful. My son, Brandon, was a writer, as well. He loved it and wanted to be published. He never got that chance. In a way, I have sworn off writing with any hopes of being published in any significant way because why should I if Brandon didn’t? I already have two books of poetry published with Brandon as illustrator of one but of course, that was before….it is now that keeps me from doing that which both of us loved at one time. I guess I still write…this blog, for instance, but it is not for publication. It is too real. The pain of loss to suicide or murder….tragedy.
The night before last I was talking to God in a casual, non prayer like way. I had realized that it had been quite a while since I had heard anything with “it is well”…our song. I cried about other people still having their children alive and well. People that I had decided weren’t worthy of even having children. ( I know, I know…who am I?) Yet, God is so wonderfully good to me even when I dare to speak such things. Even when I am in the river of self-pitied tears. Fast forward to today when I am driving down the road scrolling through radio stations and I stop at some unfamiliar station…an unfamiliar song is on….I like the sound…the calm…then the words just hit me with a subtle God Soft Hands Jesus (; Paul) and I am praising my Lord for talking to me….loving me….being here for me…and loving my son….I have to be a storyteller…tell what I know…what is real…painful and joyful…like life is. Thank you, God. I love you.