My Writing Journey
Short Version
I came into the world with an overactive imagination, learned to write and to love to write at the same time, quit for a while and started again. Many people inspired me. I thank them.
Long Version
Sunday evening, Mennonite church sanctuary, little girl fidgeting on the bench next to Daddy. A woman leaves her seat and walks to the podium, unfolding a sheet of paper as she goes, and my ears catch the crackling sound it makes. She clears her throat, eyes humbly downcast, and begins to read.
Next week, Grandma's house, little girl sitting at a scarred wooden desk. She throws down her #2 pencil and turns, a sheet of grimy paper in her hand. "Grandma, this is for you."
Grandma scans the paper, her face puzzled. "What is this?"
Little girl points to the title. "It's an S.A., Grandma. Like for church."
And it was Grandma who broke the news. "It's essay, not S.A." It was also Grandma who took an interest in my scribbles, who was known to say, "Vila, you should write a book about that."
Next week, Grandma's house, little girl sitting at a scarred wooden desk. She throws down her #2 pencil and turns, a sheet of grimy paper in her hand. "Grandma, this is for you."
Grandma scans the paper, her face puzzled. "What is this?"
Little girl points to the title. "It's an S.A., Grandma. Like for church."
And it was Grandma who broke the news. "It's essay, not S.A." It was also Grandma who took an interest in my scribbles, who was known to say, "Vila, you should write a book about that."
I decided someday I'd write a book
and dedicate it to Grandma.
and dedicate it to Grandma.
Third grade classroom, long after dismissal bell, girl slumps in her desk, writing furiously. She's turned the one-page creative writing assignment into five wide-ruled pages of fantasy, plus drawn a map of the secret island on which her story is set. Dear Miss Koehn drives her home in time for supper.
My teacher taught me writing matters.
She's forever one of my heroes.
She's forever one of my heroes.
Eighth graders crowd around the copier, watching the third edition of our school newspaper roll out in warm sheets. I'm honored my teacher appointed me editor-in-chief, pleased with my articles on a squished mouse in a snow boot and Tuesday's cold hot lunch. I want to be an author someday, after I come back from photographing lions in Africa.
That teacher told me not to quit writing.
I haven't.
I haven't.
Fifteen years old, head over heels in love with life and love and poetry and prose. My best friend and I are kindred spirits in true L.M. Montgomery fashion, we try to walk "the road nobody knows how old" with Harold Bell Wright, and we exchange handwritten poems almost worthy of our dear Frost or Tennyson. I fill spiral notebooks with sweet garbage.
I'm forever grateful to that friend
and for those sappy years.
and for those sappy years.
I marry at the ripe old age of eighteen and write scarcely another word for at least ten years. What am I doing all that time? Shopping. Tanning. Hanging out with friends. Reading. Learning to cook and garden. Waiting tables. Teaching school.
A break is healthy
and it gives you writing material for later.
and it gives you writing material for later.
On the brink of thirty, we head off to Romania under our church's humanitarian program. I want a record of those years and assume everyone else finds this new country as fascinating as I do. I scribe endless diaries and email them home each month, describing each new thing- and there are many new things- in minute detail.
Writing- any writing- steady writing-
expands the mind and improves the style.
expands the mind and improves the style.
It's lonely, living in a country outside your own, once the excitement wears off. Friendship comes in the form of email friends, a writing critique group, a group called Word-a-Week and another group who writes monthly. Some of my new friends teach me, some inspire me, some push me, some send me writing helps books and articles.
No writer
is an island.
is an island.
I sally forth into the writing world. I enter a contest and win. (An essay contest! Thanks, Grandma.) I send articles to our church's magazine for women and marvel when people seem to like them. I compile and publish a mass of diaries and trip reports from our church's mission workers in Romania. For NaNoWriMo, I write a middle-grade book based on one year of my life and give it to my family for Christmas. It shocks me when people hear about my book and want to buy it. I can't believe it when the kids who read it want a sequel.
Once you push off in your little raft
it's hard to know where you'll land.
it's hard to know where you'll land.
And that's just the beginning, really. Because...
“Stories never really end...
even if the books like to pretend they do.
Stories always go on.
They don't end on the last page,
any more than they begin on the first page.”
-Cornelia Funke
even if the books like to pretend they do.
Stories always go on.
They don't end on the last page,
any more than they begin on the first page.”
-Cornelia Funke
Photo by anankkml, courtesy of freedigitalphotos.net