I recently hosted a book club meeting at which it slipped out that I’m an aspiring author. One of the attendees hinted at a love of writing and always wanting to write a memoir about how she overcame a very traumatic part of her life. She asked me where to start as she donned her coat on the way out the door. Anyone who’s ever written a book knows that cannot be summarized into a five-minute spiel, so I lent her three books on writing.
The next day I get an enthusiastic call from her. She read one of the books cover to cover (Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott) and wrote 20 pages that morning. We talked shop for a good half hour and sure enough the excitement she exuded through the phone rubbed off on me.
I remembered how fun writing could be–when you write for the love of it and not for a cheque, when you write with inspiration and not to fit a certain publishing trend, when you write with passion and not for perfection.
This morning I am going to write with the innocence of a new writer and fully enjoy the process. I may not get twenty pages (my one and three year olds do need some type of supervision) but I know that what I do write today will be from a very special place.
