I was up early yesterday morning just walking around my apartment, breathing in home. With my camera in hand I searched out the photo op that fit my moment and just before the day began outside my window. I went right to my porch and clicked away.
I was home and I had something to write about and I had a place to write.
As a kid, I didn’t have a place I could write from. I wasn’t a writer. I didn’t care about diagraming sentences in my 7th grade English class, and if I didn’t care about that, how could I ever be a writer? Teachers in the 50’s and 60’s didn’t know they could be writers and no one knew about Ralph Fletcher’s Writer’s Notebook. Ralph Fletcher probably didn’t know about his Writer’s Notebook then either.
Good things have happened since I had to struggle with grammar for grammar’s sake-when that was writing. Diagraming sentences prepared us to write 5-paragraph essays and book reports. I shudder.
And then year’s later, someone handed me a copy of Ken Macrorie’s Telling Writing when I was in grad school, when I was already a young teacher and I started writing with pleasure. I didn’t see myself as a writer, but I did begin to write and love it. I didn’t get positive feedback yet from my English Ed grad course teacher, but I was really writing, keeping a notebook, looking forward to following Ken as he kept me moving my pen across the page as I moved through the chapters in his book.
I didn’t yet see myself as a writer, but I was writing and that was a wonderful thing even without positive feedback. I had to wait for that.
Nice to be back writing a Memoir Monday, even if it’s on a Tuesday.