I don’t remember being taught to read. I can remember, pretty far back, my Mom reading to me, my Dad making up stories, my Grandmother and Great-Grandmother reading to me.
From that, I remember one day simply reading.
And, then, learning to write.
My grandmother was a Kindergarten teacher, so playing with her was an education. I clearly remember making her belly laugh (she had the biggest laugh) when she would work with me on the lower case ‘m’ and I would close the loop at the bottom and proudly announce “bum.” She. Laughed. Every. Time. So, I made the same joke every time. The bulk of the before school age teaching and learning came down to my Mom, and the words and the books and the storytelling were always a cornerstone of what we did.
When people ask me how I became a writer, I usually answer that I think I always was one. I loved words and stringing them together to create something new or different.
I still have books inscribed with my Granny and “Granny the Great’s” handwriting, commemorating special occasions in my earlier life. Those books were treasures to begin with, to a bookworm like me, but more so because they still can deliver messages from people who are no longer here. My memories are tucked away in the pages that carried me to new places when I was little, and sometimes I think there might be a parallel universe version of myself still curled up with Nancy Drew mysteries.
Do you ever stop to think about your journey as a writer and a reader? Where do you remember it beginning?
Happy Monday, and blessings to you all.