Up until nineteen months ago, I emailed my dad stories. Stories of my day. Stories about my kids. Stories involving my dog. Stories centered on my family. These were not made-up stories. They were the stories of my real every day. And my dad emailed his stories back. We lived in different cities, but our stories kept us close.
But nineteen months ago, cancer weakened my dad, and he couldn't go to his office anymore, the home to his only computer. So our email story-sharing died. Three months later my sweet dad died too. I miss my dad, every day, and so did my stories.
Out of emails to my dad and that first blog, my writing life arose. Unfortunately, I can't tell my dad that. But I did tell him how much our emails meant to me. One day as I sat by his bedside I said simply, "Dad, I really miss our daily emails." He turned tired eyes to mine and in a frail voice replied, "Me too." We both understood the power of written words.
Without knowing it, my dad gave me one of the greatest gifts of my life. He let my stories live. And that's where my writing began.
How did your writing journey begin? I would be honored if you'd share it here.