Thursday, April 29, 2010

The Writer Gene

Write, write. If only I could write.

Page one. New book. A bit stiff. Looks like a good book. Haven’t read this author before. Diane Setterfield, The Thirteenth Tale:

“My father never put a book in my hands and never forbade a book. Instead he let me roam and graze…”

I was hooked on this book from the beginning. By the story? Perhaps, but more so, I was drawn by the beautiful words that danced across the page. This intricate tail carried me with it from page 1 to page 434. Brits have a way with words. Many of my favorite authors come from across the sea. Well, what the heck! I’m a Loxley. There is a Brit hiding somewhere in me.

My blogs don’t count. They are just echoes of my life, words that are determined to find a page. Any passing beauty flies quickly giving only a glimpse of some poetic sense.

My granddaughter loves to write. Her first story was written in the 1st grade and resided in the classroom library until it was tattered and worn. She will go to the Arts and Communication School next year and concentrate further on her writing skills. She isn’t afraid put her words on paper, to expose them to another reader. Maybe the word games, the rhyming we have done while riding in the car has encouraged her words to find a voice. Sydney has witnessed my writing struggles as I send off stories hoping to get published sometimes meeting rejection; however, when one is recognized she cheers me on. She is 11.

“Mom, I had this revelation!” my son exclaimed. “It is all falling together. I can’t stop the ideas.” My son has been working on a musical. He is a talented singer, actor. Since he was a child, he has sung in musicals. But a new voice has awakened in him. Now he is a writer.

“The words and ideas are just there!” His excitement is contagious. His work is good. He doesn’t understand that this feeling is not new to me. I know that feeling when words seems to pour from my head onto the computer screen. I look at them wondering who wrote them. Perhaps a writer’s gene came over on a boat from England long ago. I thrill that the gene is moving on through the channels of each generation.

A writer. A writer of words for every day. A writer of silliness and compassion. Ah, that I should be as graceful with my words that their music would sing from the page. I think I’ll keep trying.

1 comment:

  1. You CAN write! You ARE a writer! Your words DO sing!

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