Hop around a little from any of the links above and read how this same dream of writing got started in so many different ways.
As I mulled over my dreams of writing, I realized I can't quite place where, or when, mine began. Somewhere between my home school days when my mom made me write every day in that stupid journal, and those late nights during college when I sat in my empty room with a passion to write and nothing to write about, I just knew.
I knew I had to tell stories.
And I guess I've come a decent way from what my mom got out of me; "I just want you to write whatever you feel like writing." Many feverish minutes later she read, "I hate this journal, I hate this journal, I hate this journal..." Sorry mom - and thanks, too.
I have to say, though, that my dream for writing must have blossomed every time I read something wonderful - that is, full of wonder. I remember reading C.S. Lewis in the front yard on sunny afternoons; one day in particular we (mom and I) read about the interaction between Trumpkin and Susan in Prince Caspian. Susan defeats the dwarf in a shooting contest, and through that and a couple other feats by the children, he warms up a bit. Eventually the stubborn and faithless dwarf comes to believe in the children, and in Aslan.
I suppose it's times like those that spoke to me, and without my knowledge the seed was planted. The fruit of that still-blossoming tree is something yet to come, in a way. Publishing would be great, but really I want to see people changed. Isn't that why we write?
We know we've been changed by what we've read - it's only the dynamic Trumpkins we like because we see the growth - and we want to do the same for someone else.
(I thought I was done with this post, but Saturday night I was reading Run with the Horses, by Eugene H. Peterson and came across this:
That feels familiar, and I hope I never stop delighting myself in words.)William Stafford was once asked in an interview, "When did you decide to be a poet?" He responded that the question was put wrongly: everyone is born a poet - a person discovering the way words sound and work, caring and delighting in words. I just kept on doing, he said, what everyone starts out doing. "The real question is why did the other people stop?"
My story started with stories, and so it will continue. God makes good and beautiful things from the dust; may he continue with me as I remember I am but clay.