My earliest memories as a writer were journals of misspelled words and imaginary characters. They were learning to grip a pencil and writing until my fingers bled. They were thumbing through the pages of books in my bedroom. Before I read a single book by myself I had penned my own creations.

Growing up, my parents taught me the value of trips to the bookstore and library. And once I was reading on my own I wanted to read EVERYTHING. I loved the characters, settings, and beautiful artwork on the covers.

I was the weird kid that spent hours sorting through my books in my bedroom. The room itself may be a wreck, but that bookshelf was always in order. Stacks upon stacks of picture books soon morphed into shelves of chapter books. And as much as I loved to read I was also inspired to produce my own stories.

If I watched a movie that I didn’t like I would rewrite the ending. If I loved a series I would create my own installment. My parents still have totes of my old notebooks in their basement. It was an obsession. I can remember them joking that I always needed a notebook, but it was truth. And they always provided for my hobby.

I owe a lot to them. I was blessed to have educators and intellectuals for parents. Both of them still read and encourage me in my own journey as a writer.

Now, as I inch closer to the end of my twenties I am still an avid reader. My oldest daughter is six and already reading chapter books. I’d like to think that I’ve fostered some of those same desires in her that my parents passed down to me. Just yesterday she sat with me and we each journaled about our day in our own notebooks.

I’ve only had one poem published in a traditional market, but my dream of becoming a published author is not dead. I’m continuing to pray and believe that one day a novel with my name on the cover will make it through the wolves. But for me it is all worth so much more than that. Even if I never see that dream realized I am still a writer.

I don’t write for anyone but myself.

I don’t do it for fame, money, or recognition.

I do it because there are stories within me waiting to be lived. If I don’t give them space to breathe then I cannot be satisfied.

I’m a busy mom, teacher, wife, and WRITER.

The Ameri Brit Mom 

I’m working my way through a DIY MFA program based on the book by Gabriela Periera. Throughout the course and book study I will be posting periodically in response to prompts.