Yesterday's blog post got me thinking about why I write, and in turn, when I started to write, so here begins a series of posts about just that.
I honestly can't remember ever not writing.
Ever since I was little, I loved telling, and getting people's attention through, stories. There's a home video of me when I was about seven or eight, where I'm sitting out on the back porch and my dad's filming everything going on. My sister, K, and her friends are sliding down the slip n' slide on the mini hill in our backyard, as I lean against the back railing, my chin resting on my crossed arms, taking everything in from up above. My dad turns the camera on me and says, "Lizzie, tell me a story," and I'm more than happy to oblige.
I take a seat, my skirt flouncing out. Within seconds, I launch into a story that I pull off the top of my head. If I remember correctly, in the video, I hold my pointer finger to my chin, momentarily pondering where my story should start.
I'm talking so quietly that you can't hear much of what I'm saying, but I'm clearly invested in every word I spout about "a white house with blue trim." My sister's best friend - let's call her K2, if only because she has the same name as my sister. K2 flits through the peripheral vision of the camera in her blue bathing suit, but I don't glance her way once, as I keep talking and gesturing widely.
Watching the video when I'm older, I notice what I didn't back then. As I'm telling the story, K2 asks, "Liz, are you going to eat?"
I keep talking.
K2 keeps entering the frame, coming closer to me, continuously asking the question - but I keep telling my story, oblivious to everything else.
My gaze flits away from the camera's lens, as I envision what happens next. Nothing else exists. So, when K2 runs over to me, suddenly shouting, "Liz, ARE YOU GOING TO EAT?" I flinch and an utter look of surprise crosses my face.
I whisper, "No," and K2 walks away, finally satisfied.
And I continue on with my story, as if nothing had happened.