.jpg)
Grade Four. Little Jeanie in her school tunic (slightly askew, as always. I have the same style sense today) and scary hair cut. Look at those bangs!
But did I care? I did not. I was a happy, happy child because I was, even then...
A writer.
Some things do not change. The outside world of school and family and friends disappeared when I retreated behind closed doors to my little bedroom with its stack of books and paper. I read a lot, and when I wasn't reading, I wrote. Poems, stories, the first few chapters of novels. Pretend articles for newspapers. Letters to fictional characters. More stories.
So I grew up to be a writer, and I continue to write as much and as often as I can. It's not really something that I chose; rather, I think that writing chose me.
Any writers out there? If so, you know exactly what I mean.
Jean, my childhood looked a lot like yours. I had the bangs, too, and my fashion sense then went as far wearing anything as long as it was red. My writing scope was more limited than yours, though. I had only one ambition--to be the next Carolyn Keene! The first stories I had published were mysteries, so I guess those early years paid off.
ReplyDeleteJean, cute photo. My bangs (fringes) were trimmed in much the same way. Must have been the only style our mothers knew. Anyway, this blog is a really good idea. I will try to share and respond where appropriate. Writing for me has been, at best, inconsistent in my life. I can't seem to stick with it as you do and yet the idea of writing lives vividly in my mind. When I write, I feel good about it. When I don't, I feel bad because I'm not. And the insecurities fester and grow. I wonder how/if anyone can overcome this?
ReplyDeleteMaybe the secret is to write for yourself and nobody else. Who cares if anyone else reads it? Write because you love to write - and if the opportunity comes along to share it, great. If not, you've had the pleasure of writing something - and that's the most important thing.
ReplyDelete