She Writes

Sometimes I wonder why I write.  I write about a lot of things.  I have journals in every nook and cranny of the house and few are full or follow a theme.  I pick one up and write, I put one down and pick up another.  No rhyme or reason.  No real rhyme or reason about my writing.

When we are young, we are often asked, "what do you want to be when you grow up"?  I always wanted to be a dancer or a writer.  Neither seemed at all possible for me.  I am 5 foot 4 inches tall, so the long legs a woman needs to be a dancer were not in my gene pool.  Plus, my mother told me I had temper tantrums in dance class and she took me out.  I don't remember that at all.  I always loved to shake my booty to Elvis while doing dishes and school dances were on my favorite list of things to do.  But, I guess being a dancer was not in the stars for me.  No legs like Juliet Prowse and, not enough dance lessons.

On to writing.  English was my favorite subject in high school and I did pretty decent in it.  I have always regretted that I didn't have the opportunity to go to college.  I think I would have majored in English.  I honestly don't know what I would have done with that degree, except maybe teach and I never wanted to do that.  There was no money in my family for a college education. By the time I discovered this was really a long held dream of mine and it was still possible, it suddenly didn't matter any more.  Now, don't go reading this as a critic and checking my grammar, punctuation and spelling. I wasn't that great at English and spelling and remember, I DIDN'T go to college.

But, the dream lingered about the writing and like I said, I journal.  So one day, I saw an ad for a creative writing class being held at our local community college.  I signed up, and the rest is history. 

Nancy Linnon was my teacher.  I loved her from the start.  She was beautiful,  energetic, funky, creative and had the heart and soul of an angel.  She encouraged me and finally made me realize that being a writer is really quite simple...you simply write.  You don't have to be a published author to call yourself a writer.  I think everyone should write. Whether you journal in a fancy journal or simple notebook, on your computer, blog or put snippets on Facebook, just write.  Writing is a way to get in touch with the inner part of ourselves and discover the true essence of our heart and soul. It is therapeutic and refreshing.  It keeps our minds fresh and alive as we grow older.  It is a permanent record of who we are.  It gives us a vehicle to share stories with those we love.  Put a password or lock on stories you don't want to share or burn them if you must, but write them for yourself at the very least.

Nancy taught me to be critical of my writing, but not myself.  She taught me to look deeper at the meaning of what I was writing.  What was at it's root, what made those feelings and thoughts bubble up.  I treasure my classes, writing groups and workshops with her and wish she still lived in Tucson.  Funny sideline:  she and I grew up just a few miles from one another in Northwestern Pennsylvania.  She in Titusvile and me in Franklin. Small world.

And so, PLEASE don't critique my grammar, spelling or sentence structure. After all, I am a long way from that English class I did well in and my 66 year old brain doesn't really work as quickly or efficiently as it used to.  Look beneath, for the life behind the words.  Remember your dreams, find what gives you joy, find your voice in whatever medium suits you, look for what gives you a sense of purpose and believe that you can do it.  Don't let anyone tell you that you cannot do what your heart dreams of.