Recently, I realized I’ve lost my way. No. I’m not talking about the Hansel and Gretel kind of lost. I had forgotten why I continued to send manuscripts that were rejected time and time again. I started to doubt my decisions in my writing. Even began to doubt that I had what it took to become published.
But during the holidays it all came back to me. I was sitting at a dinning room table listening to my dad tell us about his childhood memories and the crazy people he met through the years. I have to tell you, no one can write fiction as good as the REAL world my dad had lived in during the forties and fifties. Heck, even the sixties and seventies were something to keep your mouth hanging open.
It’s through my dad and his that I inherited the need to read everything I come across (cereal boxes, labels on jars, etc.), and reciting tales of my childhood can at times sound like a William Faulkner novel.
So with the help of my dad, I found my way back to understanding why I want to be published. I have too many stories to tell to let them sit in a dusty box under my bed or remain in my head. It’s in my blood. I write for my dad and his dad and my kids who enjoy my stories as much I do. I just feel that others out there would enjoy them, too.
Besides, Dad said he would record all his stories for me since I was the writer in the family. The writer. Gee. Where's a handkerchief when you need one?
How about you? Why do you write? What makes you want to write?