I believe it started when my Mother taped my “Roses is Red” poem onto the refrigerator.  I was so proud of that second grade scrawl,  framed with purple-markered hearts, and I beamed each time I swung open the appliance door.  I was the kid who squealed and squirmed, brimming with anticipation, anytime the teacher announced a Creative Writing assignment.  Amid the groans and grumbling about word counts, I was fiercely scribbling away, hoping I had enough notebook paper to finish my masterpiece.  One of these finished assignments earned high praise from my teacher and an invitation to read it in front of the class. Oh boy!  That was back before I was bashful and worried about anyone else’s opinions and feedback. Sometimes I miss sharing my work with such abandon.  Now, I tend to guard it as closely as my ATM pin.

Through the years I continued to love the scratch of thoughts on paper.  Anyone who knows anything about introverts (and some people are surprised when I call myself that), will know that we love deep conversations.  But it can be hard to find people with which to share all our thoughts and impressions.  If you are an introvert, I think you know what I am talking about.  I have difficulty initiating conversations with people I do not know very well, mostly because I feel inadequate launching into small talk (though certain small talk conversations such as the Cubs World Series win will never get me to stop talking).  Often Mr. Darcy’s quip to Elizabeth Bennett (another topic I could happily prattle about) breezes through my mind:  “We neither of us perform to strangers”.   This does not mean I do not enjoy small talk, or that I avoid it.  I am less skillful at it and lack the speed to ask the questions of a person that would help me to engage better with them.  Hence, as I was in a new school usually every three or four years (I was a military kid), a pencil and paper became my best friends.  Those and a precocious imagination.  This might lead some to believe that growing up was tough.  No, not at all.  Making friends was intimidating at first, but I have the great advantage of having had many friends all over the world, with some of whom I am still acquainted.

Journaling and diary-keeping then, became a habitual practice for me.  I analyze. I dissect.  I digest.  I replay.  When I read a good book, I chase after someone else who has read it and hash over every detail.  She runs away of course, but not before I’ve pinned her down on why the ending of that book was exactly as it should have been.  This tendency permeates my life in many areas.  Sports, politics, faith, family, entertainment.  None of these can escape my over-analytical brain.  So, instead of cornering people about things that they were happy to talk about for minutes, but I had not exhausted after hours, the realization that channeling all this analysis into writing became a necessary habit.  And I still had the precocious imagination.  What I struggled to say in person, gained clarity when I was writing.  Perhaps this is because I’m not restricted by the time constraint of conversation when slap-dash exchanges are the norm and dead spaces of conversation segue into crickets.  Also, I have an eraser.

I have dabbled in writing through the years.  College years required juggling classes, church responsibilities, and jobs.  About the only writing taking place at that time were over-nighters I pulled to hand in research papers.  After college graduation, I was hired as an elementary teacher in a private Christian school.  I taught. I graded papers.  I wrote…lesson plans.  But I rarely had or made the time to write like I used to.  Then I married and acquired wifely responsibilities, followed by having children which gave me the privilege of motherly duties.  The itch to write continued to stay with me, but time did not.  It has taken many years for me to understand that I can write, and still not take anything away from my husband and children.  That has always been my biggest fear.  I am not willing to sacrifice one for the other.  My children are older now, more self sufficient. That is a curse and a blessing.

Now I write late into the evenings. After my children are tucked away, and my husband has been dozing for hours, I write.  Some nights, I have little to show.  My characters won’t cooperate.  My plot needs more development.  I can’t describe a scene the way I wish to.   Many years, I compelled myself to write only when inspiration moved me, or when I could dedicate a whole day to it.  But I have learned that (as in so many areas of life) consistency is key.  A daily regimen is what makes one a good writer.  And a precocious imagination.