Hi my name is Pat and this is my blog. Come on in, grab a seat and sit a spell. Don’t forget your hot coffee, your iced coffee, your latte, or any other plain Jane or frou-frou coffee you desire. All types allowed.
Settled? Good. Now for my story.
I have wanted to write for the most part of my life.
Recently I read an article that advised me as a writer to tell my story. We all have to start somewhere so here is my writing story.
I learned to read at a young age. By the time I started school, I was already reading at a 3rd grade level. Thanks Mom. J As I was growing up, whenever we traveled anywhere, my sister always had a book in her hand and I always had a book and my journal in mine. I read everything I could get my hands on and often finished several books each week. But, writing was my thing. My journals became an extension of the real me. There was nothing that I couldn’t enclose in the confines of those sacred pages and know that it was safe. Remember that word-safe.
Junior high and high school brought about the opportunity for me to serve as student editor of my school newspapers. I also had the opportunity to serve as a teen columnist my town’s local newspaper until I graduated from high school.
After graduating, I did a brief stint on another local newspaper. Unfortunately I wasn’t used to having the words I wrote critiqued. This set me up for not being able to take criticism very well, even though the editor of that paper was a gentle soul. I could have gotten over my aversion to being critiqued; I mean that is part and parcel of the writing life-right? It was when I realized “cub reporters” for this particular paper were expected to go out and find their own stories as a way of proving themselves that I quickly realized maybe journalism was not for me.
This may have ended my journalism career but I still had my journals. By this time I had amassed quite a number of them.
Fast forward to the birth of my son.
When my son was born, I moved in with his father and one night we got into a hideous argument and the best way he could get back at me was to burn the one thing that I held sacred other than my son of course – my journals. Remember I told you not to forget that word safe. A part of me died when that fire burned down to ashes. I didn’t write for years. My spirit was broken…
Now I have a precious 15-year-old and his Dad moved out of the picture over 10 years ago, and I am just now rediscovering myself as a writer. I have written several newsletters for a couple of organizations I have worked for but I am really just beginning to see myself as a writer and get comfortable with calling myself a WRITER.
I have to admit, there are days when I don’t feel like I have a thought or idea in my head worthy of writing about but then there are times where I find myself receiving bouts of inspiration at the most inopportune times.
Who knows where this part of my journey will lead but I plan on enjoying the ride and I’m inviting you to come along.
