Saturday, January 7, 2012


We finished our first week of homeschooling after the Christmas break. One of the things we learned, since really I am learning right along with the kids, is the history of New York City. Fascinating! Did you know piracy played a huge part? And they were a tolerant city, being dutch, they let just about anyone in. Anyone who had money. Except Catholics. Isn't that interesting? I had no idea. I LOVE history!
Later Daniel came to me to brag, "Do you know what 'history' means?" I told him, "His Story, writings about things that happened in the past." Daniel nodded his head triumphantly with a "Yup!" He was proud of his mama, that she knew as much as he did. At least on that particular topic.
A few nights ago a friend said something that made me think she was possibly a writer. I did not ask for clarification because I was horrified. She can't be a writer. I'M the writer! Does it matter that I have not written more than a sentence in over a year? If that is an exaggeration, it is not by much.
Last night I was thinking about history, his story, and her story, and my story. The thought, "If you don't write your story, who will?" popped into my brain as clear as a cloudless summer sky.
I can no longer call myself a writer if I don't write. And "Writer" is simply not a title I am willing to give up on.