Why I Write

Why I write


I blame my parents.

It really is their fault that writing has become important to me. Now let me see if I can show you how they did it.

The first step to becoming a writer is to become a reader. I loved being read to as a young child. In the interest of promoting my reading skills, my parents insisted that I read to them instead. I was pretty sure this was pure, unadulterated torture. And it probably was...for my parents. They persevered, and eventually I learned to love reading.

It is the simple truth that English teachers need to correct improper grammar. Since that is what my parents are, having my grammar corrected was part of our everyday communications. A typical conversation might go something like this:

Me: “Mom, Frisky is laying on top of my science project. She’s going to ruin it!”
Mom: “No, honey, Frisky is lying on top of your science project. Now go wash up. Dinner is almost ready.”

Since this was such a commonplace occurrence in my life, I invariably forgot to warn visiting friends about the impending grammar lessons. Sometimes they learned to love my parents despite the unexpected corrections. If their ego couldn’t handle some gentle teaching, then they probably weren’t worth keeping as friends. Or so I told myself.

When I was in 12th grade, I discovered that Mom had incorporated some of my high school research papers into her teaching curriculum. Luckily for my then-fragile teenage ego, Mom taught at a different high school than I attended, so none of the students knew me there. I learned to be vigilant when writing papers and extra careful what school work I left out since I never knew what might end up being copied and handed out to a classroom full of tenth graders.

In our home we had an unabridged Webster’s Dictionary. This was a massive tome with a hard cover and gold edging on the pages, like something you would expect to find in a library. This particular unabridged Webster’s Dictionary rested on its own three-and-a-half-foot-tall, oak podium. The podium was in our dining room with the dictionary always open and ready for use just in case Dad wanted to check the definition or pronunciation of a word used during dinner conversation. Any word was fair game for these side conversations. A discussion about a new motorcycle would segue into questions about the spelling of the word “fairing”. A report on treating a sick dog would transform into thoughtful consideration of the specialized slang usage of the word “pill” as a verb.

I find that I am the only person at work that has a grammar reference at their desk that is not a medical dictionary. I have a basic mistrust of spell-checker programs (they can only get you so far) and find myself using this reference time and again. I have a dictionary program loaded onto the laptop I am typing on now. In my defense, I do not own an unabridged Webster’s Dictionary. I just don’t have room for a three-and-a half-foot-tall podium where I currently live.

There were times during my early grade school years when it was necessary for me to accompany Dad to work. I would sit my six or seven year-old self at a desk like I was one of his undergraduate students and try my best to do what they did. I had paper and a pen, and I would listen to Dad’s lecture and make myself very busy writing...something. Those early experiences showed up when I went to college and found myself taking way more English classes than was strictly necessary for a Psychology major. And nobody, least of all me, thought this at all odd.

So, now I write. And it’s all their fault.