Last night, Huck and I curled up at bedtime and read this fine little book:
Huck read the first six pages or so to me (with a little help on the three syllable words) until he got tired of doing the hard work; I took over and finished reading, my fingers tracing the words so he could follow along.
Hearing your child read to you, really read to you, is a thrill indeed.
Huck is reading well, very well; in fact, whenever I listen to him read, the words flowing smoothly off his tongue, I realize that my freckle-faced boy has been able to read for longer than I knew. He simply did it, reading that is, rather than bragging about it; Huck's rare like that.
Writing should be like that, too: something you just do rather than something you talk about doing.
If you asked me what I do, I'd tell you I was a mom, a blogger, a code hack (I need to get my sites updated before BlogHer in July), an over-volunteerer (not always by choice), and that's about it.
I'm certain I wouldn't add Writer to that list; that, my find bloggy friends and readers, would seem too ambitious, too over-reaching.
But here's the thing: I am a writer and like Stephen King says in On Writing (a book that lives on my nightstand, one I've read so many times that just about every page is dog-eared), I shouldn't need a paper badge with the word WRITER on it to believe that I am one.*
Which is why I adored that story book above last night. I won't spoil it for you, but if you happen to find a copy in the children's section of your library, curl up and read it to your cutiepies and see if you can guess which part of the book had me hollering, "YES!" in enthusiastic agreement.
We are all filled with stories waiting to be told.
We are all writers waiting to happen.
Put aside your notions of what being a Writer with a capital "W" means and give yourself permission to bloom as a writer
I promise to try to do the same, too.
Thanks for reading Writer-Mommy!
* p. 235; cite it, baby!