Flying Sailboats, Typewriters, and Monkey Masks

The first story I can remember writing was about a couple of kids on a flying sailboat. They would fly from adventure to adventure saving whatever needed to be saved.

I fell in love with putting my imagination on paper. I would swoon just thinking of which words to use to describe different people or events. I would nestle into my favorite spot in my bedroom and write away the day. It felt like coming home after being away at camp--to be safely home in the folds of love.

One day, while visiting with my grandparents, my Grandma turned on her typewriter and began typing out a letter to someone. It probably was to her sister who lived in OH. They had such a close relationship. They were on the phone often with each other and would send letters with family photos back and forth through the mail.

 I loved it when my great Aunt would come to visit. Those two old birds could sit in the kitchen all day and laugh and cackle about anything. I remember when my Aunt, my Grandma's daughter, got married. My Grandma's sister brought monkey masks for the family to wear in one of our photos which we did. At the time, I thought my family was so weird--typical preteen. Now, I would give anything to go back and have my grandma and great Aunt with us again. My grandma was just so full of life. I loved her. Anyway, she was typing a letter.

The typewriter clicked and clacked away to the rhythm of my Grandma's thoughtful fingers. It was the most beautiful sound...the sound of thoughts becoming real. The sound of her inner fears and joys, her ideas and perspectives coming to the surface and breaking out onto the paper. It electrified me.

Before long, I had a typewriter of my own. I started bringing to the surface my inner thoughts and feelings and letting them break open onto the paper. I knew then, that this was a part of me. The paper became my canvas and my thoughts were the paints I used to create my mosaics.

I am a writer. I savor the taste of words in my mouth. They are like a sweet wine that I never want to swallow. Even if my words go unnoticed, I am still a writer. The reward isn't in who reads what I wrote, but in the rhythmic release of the inside to the outside. It is home.