I had thought for a number of years that one of my sons
would be a writer when he grew up; it was simply something I took for granted
from his earliest years. This is a boy who, at 2, said of our snow-covered
house, “The house looks like a snow muffin” and who any number of people said
had “the eyes of a poet” (whatever that means, even though I had to agree with
them—he had the eyes of an old soul). Though he took an interest through
elementary and middle school and wrote short stories and poems, he is headed to
different artistic endeavors, which is fine by me.
The idea that one might be a born writer is a tempting
thought. Certainly, some people are gifted in one area or another and have less
distance to cover, perhaps, to achieve greatness (or, at least, competence). The
temptation (for me, anyway) is not so much to feel one is born a writer than to
feel that one wasn’t, thereby having an easy excuse to fail to exercise
whatever talent has been bestowed.
Even if I was born to write, so much debris stands between
me and whatever I was born to, that I think I should just start from scratch
every day, without expectation of anything but effort.
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