It’s FMF time, and after a lovely Twitter-party with the #FMFParty gals, I’m ready to write . Come on in and join the party, where we write freely, for five minutes, together. We are a community. Check out Lisa-Jo Baker’s blog for the deets.
I rub my fingers over the hardened callouses on my thumb and forefinger, often ink-stained, evidence of a furious session of journaling. My handwriting has never been perfect, but the imperfect letters stumble across the page, weaving together the everyday story of my life.
Later on, my finger rapidly pound the keys of my battered laptop, weaving together another story. One purely from my imagination and experiences in Africa. One that is slowly forming my first novel.
I am a writer. <– Click to Tweet!
I used to be a closet writer. I would never tell my friends or family that I enjoyed writing, or that someday I hoped to do something with it. I hid it away, expecting people to laugh at me. How could I be a writer? Writers don’t come from little girls from semi-rural Iowa, right? Writers are rich, famous people who parade around on TV touting their newest, best-selling book.
Writers are weavers of stories. They come in all shapes in sizes. Including the second-grader who fully embraced her teacher’s lesson on make our own stories into books (colored paper folded over and stapled, handwritten and illustrated by yours truly). That’s where my writing story began, and I will always be grateful to Mrs. A for teaching me to love writing.
I’m not rich, and I’m not even remotely famous. But I am a writer. My audience is small, and my stories aren’t grandiose. But, even so, I am a writer.