Committing to this 31 day Slice of Life challenge was a bit of a leap of faith for me. I’ve been so immersed in mothering and teaching that I have let the writing life slip to the side and haven’t tried very hard to save it.
I was the little girl who graduated from incessant list making in a stockpiled collection of notebooks to hours spent writing stories on a typewriter. Most of my early childhood stories had to do with princesses and dragons and included glorious illustrations made possible by my impressive collection of crayons - 64 of them in a box complete with built in sharpener.
Reading Harriet the Spy in 4th grade ushered in a period of serious eavesdropping that resulted in penned scenes with rich, stolen dialogue. These led the way to plays written for neighborhood kids which they performed under duress and my exacting direction.
As I grew, the typed stories and plays morphed into angsty journals filled with drama about who liked who and who didn’t. There were plenty of tales told, drafted in small print on notes folded into tight triangles and passed to a bestie in class hoping the teaching wouldn’t see.
And then life took over. College, work, marriage, career change…no writing.
When my children were small, a brief glimpse of it returned. Writing helped me reclaim a part of me. Daily journaling became a small slice of sanity, a time of grounding before the day exploded around me in all its wondrous glory. During those years when my children were younger and I was home with them full time, I used to belong to a writing group with a few musicians and was always in awe of the way their words touched my soul and carried it away on the wings of their music. I always felt like a bit of a poser.
As my children grew and my teaching life became more all encompassing, I let it go, never quite making the time to write the way I wanted to, because it felt indulgent and there were things to do. The time I used to reserve for writing was lost - given away. I continued to write with my students, writing in front of them, creating mentor texts, sharing stories and encouraging them to write from the heart. But writing for me? Hmmmm. It’s been elusive. After all, smirked my internal critic, who was I to write? What did I have to say?
So it’s been a long time since I’ve allowed myself this gift of writing time, and sharing with others who have a similar love of language and a desire to get deeper, realer, through the pen, has doubled the gift.
I know that writing from the heart is a birthright. Mine. Turns out, I have plenty to say. I always have. I’m the queen of vicarious conversations who figures out what I think on the page. It's often messy and ill-formed... a work in progress, just like me.
Writing used to be a solace and a source of joy and exploration. I’m taking that back. Who am I to do this work? The only one. The only one who can tell my stories, my truths. The only one who needs to be brave here, is me.
I was the little girl who graduated from incessant list making in a stockpiled collection of notebooks to hours spent writing stories on a typewriter. Most of my early childhood stories had to do with princesses and dragons and included glorious illustrations made possible by my impressive collection of crayons - 64 of them in a box complete with built in sharpener.
Reading Harriet the Spy in 4th grade ushered in a period of serious eavesdropping that resulted in penned scenes with rich, stolen dialogue. These led the way to plays written for neighborhood kids which they performed under duress and my exacting direction.
As I grew, the typed stories and plays morphed into angsty journals filled with drama about who liked who and who didn’t. There were plenty of tales told, drafted in small print on notes folded into tight triangles and passed to a bestie in class hoping the teaching wouldn’t see.
And then life took over. College, work, marriage, career change…no writing.
When my children were small, a brief glimpse of it returned. Writing helped me reclaim a part of me. Daily journaling became a small slice of sanity, a time of grounding before the day exploded around me in all its wondrous glory. During those years when my children were younger and I was home with them full time, I used to belong to a writing group with a few musicians and was always in awe of the way their words touched my soul and carried it away on the wings of their music. I always felt like a bit of a poser.
As my children grew and my teaching life became more all encompassing, I let it go, never quite making the time to write the way I wanted to, because it felt indulgent and there were things to do. The time I used to reserve for writing was lost - given away. I continued to write with my students, writing in front of them, creating mentor texts, sharing stories and encouraging them to write from the heart. But writing for me? Hmmmm. It’s been elusive. After all, smirked my internal critic, who was I to write? What did I have to say?
So it’s been a long time since I’ve allowed myself this gift of writing time, and sharing with others who have a similar love of language and a desire to get deeper, realer, through the pen, has doubled the gift.
I know that writing from the heart is a birthright. Mine. Turns out, I have plenty to say. I always have. I’m the queen of vicarious conversations who figures out what I think on the page. It's often messy and ill-formed... a work in progress, just like me.
Writing used to be a solace and a source of joy and exploration. I’m taking that back. Who am I to do this work? The only one. The only one who can tell my stories, my truths. The only one who needs to be brave here, is me.