(I realize this post is coming really early. But the time zone settings are all messed up on my profile, and it's taking more brain-power than I have to sort it out. So this'll just be a really early post.)
Let’s
face it. In one way or another, our mothers are at the root of everything we
do. Now, I’m not saying this in some cheap pop psych way, but fundamentally,
without mothers, we wouldn’t do anything that we do.
At
the most basic level, they gave birth to us. We need to be born, obviously. But
then, in many cases, they raise us. They teach us. As if it wasn’t enough that
we literally fed off of them for nine months, and then caused hours of excruciating
pain and hard work, they then spent a great majority of the next eighteen-ish
(rough approximation, obviously) years putting up with us.
Seriously.
Mothers are awesome. They deserve much more than a day of recognition.
So,
that is why I’m writing this post. To honor the complete awesomeness that is my
mother. Not only is she pretty much the most amazing mother in the history of
ever (I know many of you will disagree, but really, you’re just biased), she’s
also pretty much the most significant reason I write.
I
don’t think she knows this. But let me prove my point.
::Cues
nostalgic music::
I
don’t even remember what grade I was in, honestly. It was one of the early
ones. I was sitting in what was then our school room, and is now our play room
(an obvious improvement).
It
was time for English, and I was sitting in my throne of dorkiness, which most
people refer to as a desk. Mom and I had already identified the subject and
predicate of a few sentences on those pages from the A Beka curriculum, and I
felt pretty darn good about it.
And
then, horror of all horrors, she placed a blank sheet of paper before me. I
looked at her expectantly, waiting for directions. She held the A Beka book
before her and read, “Write a ten sentence story about monkeys,” and closed the
book.
I
stared. Surely there were more directions! I couldn’t possibly be expected to
come up with ten whole sentences on my own, could I? That was outrageous!
So
I asked, “But what am I supposed to write?”
“Whatever
you want,” came the reply.
And,
literally, I dissolved into tears. I completely freaked out.
I
spent probably fifteen minutes of my life begging my mother to give me
instructions. And then I tried bargaining.
“At
least let it be about people!” I cried, sprawled quite dramatically across the
couch, downstairs.
Yes,
this was a multi-floor crisis.
Mom
remained firm. Loving, of course, but firm. And I’m pretty sure she was
suppressing laughter, but then again, I was sobbing, so I’m not sure how
reliable that memory is.
So
eventually, succumbing to the inevitable, I wrote the story, about a teenage
monkey who decided to steal the whole village’s bananas one night, as an act of
rebellion. And, naturally, sweeping the emotional crisis of a few minutes
before from my mind, I was rather proud.
That’s
my earliest memory of any brush with creative writing of any form. I’d say I’ve
come a long way, if not in writing quality, at least in my willing embrace of
the insanity. (But hopefully the writing’s improved. At least a little.)
Then
came the ill-fated attempts at mystery novels, inspired by my love for the
Hardy Boys series. Mom listened to every idea, every sentence I threw together.
She even managed to smile when I forced her to look at the illustrations I had
provided, but thankfully I gave up on that fairly quickly.
Those
are my earliest memories, and as you can see, my mother was involved every step
of the way. Now, fast-forward a few years.
My
senior year was pretty spectacular, for many reasons, one of the more
significant being the fact that Mom had, in lieu of a traditional grammar
course, allowed me to write my novel, and let that count as Grammar, Writing,
and Vocab. Because of that, I finally got down and dirty with my first
significant writing project, the now-abandoned Darkness Falls.
I
think it’s pretty safe to say that my Mom is the reason I write. Obviously
something such as this is more complex than such a reductionist explanation can
capture, but I think it makes my point nicely.
So…I’d
like to thank you, Mom. I don’t even know if you’ll end up reading this.
But
thanks.
So,
this is my story. What about all of you? How did your mother affect your
writing, or your desire to write?
