I met two ladies for dinner not long ago. One, an author friend I’ve known for years and the other, a woman who recently felt a tug on her tender heart to share her writing with others.
I looked to my author friend who has a real book published, that a lot of people have read and that is translated in other languages and thought to myself, “What am I doing here?” I write newspaper articles that likely end up at the bottom of a bird-cage. I’m not the person to ask about writing. My sentences are choppy and I use too many commas.
But I write because I always have. I’ve written in South Carolina, a summer in Chicago, two years in New Orleans, mission trips to Russia and Romania. I’ve penned words to the dim glow of a candle and the fluorescent lights of an uncomfortable hospital bed. I scribbled my heart of teenage angst and young love across the pages of gold lined stationary.
These days my grown up blue damask journal tells stories of a baby, a preteen, a young man who is growing up before my eyes and a husband who I share coffee with every afternoon.
It’s a simple life of love and forgiveness and more love and forgiveness and a lot of grace.
And it’s often recorded in choppy sentences with too many commas.
“There’s nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein.”
– Walter Wellesley Smith