I am a writer. I always have been. I always will be.
The pen and I are connected, my hand moves with it connected to my digits and spreads out the thoughts in my mind, bringing ink in colors of blue, black, pink, and purple on paper of white. I am a writer.
When I was nine or ten years old, my late father gave me a stack of Big Chief Tablets and a pencil and told me to go write down my stories. I wish I still had them today because it was one of the purest moments of creativity, my imagination took flight and the words reached paper. My late father relished in them from my tale of the Irish Potato Famine that took off from me gnawing on a pencil in class to my coming-of-age-story of a young girl in the big city, I wish those stories and my father’s deep baritone was still around to encourage me, all these decades later.
I write poetry, essays, and one day, that long awaited memoir. I also write professionally as a consultant, marketing professional, and educator. I earned my Masters of Business Administration from the University of Iowa, the home of the Iowa Writer’s Workshop, the place where communication on paper was part of every class.
These words on paper, this ability to sway an opinion, inform, entertain, and reach out to the heart of someone is the magical power of being able to write, being able to bring what is in my mind to a living document, eternal in the inscription. I am a writer.
Years long on this earth, not yet fifty, has enabled me to live more stories that are waiting to be put on paper. This is my destiny, my existence. I am a writer.