There are some questions every author is asked during interviews one of them is inevitably: When did you start writing?
I remember the first story I ever wrote, though not my precise age, maybe nine or ten. It was a story about a bear. No idea what happened to the bear, but good things one can hope.
The reason the subject was a bear likely revolves around the fact my adopted used to make up stories before bed-time involving three bears(for his three adopted children). Stories were magic, and I could disappear into them and often did. It’s something many children from not so pleasant homes do.
Writing continued to be an outlet for me into my teens. I remember the exact moment I gave up on it as anything more than a childish pursuit.
I was fourteen and I showed my father a song I’d written and he told me I couldn’t have written it, though he didn’t quite mean it as a compliment. The crushing words were followed up by my mother telling me I was wasting my time. It’s how things were in our house. As a woman, I was supposed to learn all the household things and find a nice preacher boy to marry.
I’m rather pleased by the fact I’ve sorely disappointed my parents on all of those things.
Words matter because words are insidious. They will seep through the hardened walls of your soul. They creep into your defenses and into your psyche without you ever being aware.
Several of my closest friends are authors, and I have repeatedly over the years told them…’I’m not an author. I can’t write. I can’t finish a story.’
It took me a while to realize the only person holding me back from finishing a story was myself. So I finished it–Ivy.
I say all of that to say this.
There’s a lot of cruelty in the name of honesty on the internet. Words matter. You lose nothing by starting with kindness. Don’t crush someone else’s spirit. You gain nothing by it.
Do you think words matter?