I Just Forgot

I am a writer, but for twenty-five years, I forgot. I’m a writer not because there are books out there with my name on them (there aren’t) or because I get paid for each word that flows from my brain to the keyboard (I don’t). I am a writer simply because I write, and it makes me happy. I just happened to forget about this part of myself for a quarter of a century.

When I look back, it feels like I spent my entire childhood writing stories. Cowboys with magical powers, orphans with dark secrets, a family of talking squirrels, each named for a different nut – these were all characters in the tales I dreamed up as a little girl. I loved to read as well, and spent hours with my beloved books. Ramona the Pest, Charlotte’s Web, Where the Red Fern Grows, James and the Giant Peach. . . these classics stole my heart and sent my imagination soaring. But I think the best gift they gave to me, aside from the simple joy of reading them, was the inspiration to write my own stories, create my own make-believe worlds. Someone had written those words I loved so much, I reasoned, so that meant I too could write words that I loved.

Nothing made me happier than writing in one of my notebooks or, as I got older, pecking at the keyboard of my family’s shared computer. Sometimes I would wake up with a dream fresh in my mind, and race to the computer to write it down, molding and shaping it like clay until the story took on a life of its own. Writing was the only thing that could make me lose track of time. When I was writing, I never looked at the clock, or thought about what I was going to eat for dinner, or felt bored like I sometimes I did at school. I was perfectly content in my own little world, with my imagination for sustenance and my characters for company.

I can’t remember when I stopped writing for pleasure, but I suspect it was around thirteen – the age when hormones are running wild, homework and life both start to feel a little bit harder, and things like boys and popularity become more important than childhood passions. I don’t think I did any creative writing again until I was well into my twenties. I can remember being a newlywed, and later an exhausted new mom, sitting down to write in the late-night hours when both my house and my mind were finally quiet. Sadly, those times were few and far between, and never led to a serious resurgence of my favorite hobby. I would outline a few stories, maybe write a few chapters, but I would never finish anything, and then years would pass before I would pick it up again. It often felt like something was missing from my life, but it was easy to ignore that little voice deep inside that whispered, “You need to write!”

It wasn’t until a few months ago, at the age of 38, that I started to listen to and trust that little voice. I started to write again. Picture books, poems, essays, flash fiction… I started to write anything and everything. I set aside time every day now - in between my full-time job and caring for my children and all of the other things life throws at us - and I just write. I let the words pour out and remember why I used to love this so much as a child. It’s still the only thing that makes me lose all sense of time and place. It’s the only thing that makes me feel like the truest version of myself. It doesn’t matter if anyone reads my words; what matters is the act of putting them on paper and feeling that indescribable sparkle when they sound exactly right.

I’m so thankful I found my way back to writing. I am a writer.

I just forgot.