I was the kid who wrote thirty page stories in fifth grade. And the one who wrote the school play in sixth grade. I was the girl who stored hundreds of stories on her computer (and in several half-written journals).
Writing was a hobby, a pastime, something to do while waiting for another stat read in college. Or a funny short story in the margins of my animal science textbooks. Writing was just a way to calm a busy mind.
But then a quiet boy from Kansas asked for my hand. When I confessed my love of literature, he gently pushed me to write. He’s encouraged, prodded and even consoled me every step of the way.
Traveling to and from New York, or San Francisco or even just over the mountain to Los Angeles—he’s not once complained or questioned the process. His belief in me has (at times) been the only reason I’ve continued.
Tonight, during our walk behind our little ranch, he encouraged me (again) to attend another conference/retreat.
Writers, hold your loved ones close. Because of them, we can be us.