WRITING IS IN MY BLOOD

If you checked in with Sportster's blog, Sportster's blog  you know we’re heading out for our second annual Santa Barbara Writers Conference.

 A year ago we were only a blip on the author grid. I was nervous, excited, in awe, did I mention in awe? I attempted to attend every seminar, panel, and pirate workshop. I listened, read, wrote and even spoke on a panel. What an unforgettable experience. I met agents, writers, publishers and made unusual friends I will never forget.

I was validated and encouraged by my peers while they impressed and humbled me with their talent. I collapsed every night with words of literary wisdom swirling in my brain waiting in anticipation to be applied a page.

And now the journey begins again. Can you guess? I am nervous, excited and in awe once again. The anticipation pulses even higher because I know what lies ahead - opportunities to enhance my writing skills, make new contacts, and renew old friendships.

How did it all happen? My profession has been grooming dogs since I was eleven years old. When did I develop a talent with the pen as well as the scissors?

 

As a child in sneakers, I wrote in the closet. Perched on a stool, hunched over my diary, a small lamp illuminating my dreams, I wrote my secrets. What they were, I don’t recall but writing was like talking to a best friend that I didn’t have. The skirts and coats hung around me like drawn curtains hiding me from the outside world. I was safe with my secrets.

But it began before then - this ride down literary lane. It began with my mother, who was a true seeker. Liberated during WWII while Dad was away, Mom ran the household even after he returned. She managed their apartments and became a real estate broker. She trained her two daughters in the ways of independence and she wrote children’s’ stories in her spare time.

Digging through a trunk filled with sepia memories, locks of hair and death certificates, I discovered The Redbird Stories by Wilma Holvey. Reading her words etched on the onion skin paper by her Smith Corona typewriter, produced visions of my sister and I snuggled up under each of her arms as she read her creation. The stories gave me a new understanding and connection to my mother. She, too, was an aspiring author, and so I have inherited the words that run in my blood.

I won’t be alone in Santa Barbara.