Am I a writer?

Read and write.  According to Ernest Hemingway and Stephen King, that’s what it takes to be a writer.  I think it’s fair to add that a writer needs to have the gift or calling, the honed skill, and the passion too.  Me, am I a writer?  Do I have what it takes?

Of all of the above requirements, I can say that I am widely read.  I have devoured books as quickly as potato chips from the time I was able to read on my own.  Daily I eagerly awaited the mail hoping for a delivery from one of the book clubs my parents had let me join.  When a new book arrived I quickly unleashed it from its packing and sat down in Daddy’s roomy black chair to begin a new adventure.  Immediately I entered into the story whether it be a biography, classic, or the recounting of a famous event.  As 5:00 p.m. neared my mother would tell me to set the table for dinner and I would call out that I’d get to it after I finished the chapter.  Then the end of that chapter would leave me hanging, and I would start the next one and so on until my mother’s voice became harried or angry, her patience tried.  Most of these books were recently rediscovered when I cleaned out the attic at my parents’ house upon their passing.  They reside on my bookshelves, reminding me of the happiest of childhood times.

I also enjoyed other sources of reading material from “Highlights” to Scholastic books.  And then there were visits to the city’s public library, The Burnham Anthenaeum, a big solid-looking building on Church Street, just across from the park.  My eyes never strayed to the side of the street with the swings and climbing apparatus, no, my focus was entirely on my favorite destination.  Once inside, I would stand in awe, admiring the pillars, marble, and huge staircase, and then I’d breathe in the familiar scent of the wooden bookcases and moldings.  There, to the left and on the bottom shelf, was the Laura Ingalls Wilder series of “Little House” books.   I read them all.  I plowed through other series too, the Bobbsey Twins, okay but not a favorite, and Nancy Drew.  Our sixth grade classroom library was composed solely of the Hardy Boys books, so I even read those.

During my high school years I was exposed to wonderful literature from around the world, and once I finished college and had time to read what I wished, I revisited many of those authors from Tolstoy and Dostoevsky to Vonnegut.  During the summers of my teaching years, I  often read two books a day, all “beach reading” from the local library.

My focus is different now having reached that point in my life where I realize that there is so little time and so many books.  Consequently, my reading has become increasingly selective.  Currently I am making my way through memoirs and literature suggested by writers as well as “how to” books on writing.  I don’t know if I am preparing myself to write or merely testing myself.  Do I have a gift for writing?

I don’t know.  Much of my writing has been formal and work related--grants, long reports, instruction manuals, and articles for journals.  More recently I wrote editorial columns for a small local newspaper and had some memoir pieces published as a result of the spiritual writing retreats I’ve attended.  Now I have this blog that is supposed to provide me with an opportunity to write and the discipline to make timely entries.  I have failed on the second.  But it is the encouragement of others I have received for many years that spurs me on, and I find myself at 60 with this new purpose.  Skills can be learned, but now is the time to discern my gift and my passion.  Not for the faint-hearted.