A gift

When I was about 8 years old, my grandmother bought me a bright blue electric typewriter with black keys and a smooth shiny finish. It had it's own carrying case and was probably one of the most modern portable writing devices of the time.

And I ignored it. And I didn't want it. And I pronounced selfishly that I wanted a Cabbage Patch Doll instead. And no one tried to persuade me. Everyone understood. It was the early eighties and every girl wanted one of those trendy dolls, why shouldn't I? And I wonder now if Grandma saw something in me the writer that I didn't see myself.

Flash forward twenty years and all I want to do is tell stories. When I meet you at a party or through a friend, I will inevitably tell you some kind of story that will help you relate to me. I might not even tell you. I might show you with one of the multitude of funny pictures at hand on my phone. A weird character I saw on the bus yesterday or the ugly shirt I posed in. Whatever it is, it will tell you a story that I want you to enjoy with me.

I love stories and the characters that go along with them. I have been collecting snippets of stories and quotes for ten years solid. I have a library of index cards of scenes and situations, coincidences and funny things that have happened. I love to capture and retell relive those moments in new and fresh ways.

I write because I can't imagine not writing. I want to finish stories and be proud because my grandmother saw that potential long before I did. I regret returning that typewriter and think about it far more often than whatever doll I got in exchange. In fact don't even remember anything about the doll, what her name was or what her hair looked like but I will never forget the blue of that typewriter.

So why do you do it?

The End

85 comments about this exercise Feed