Brownstonelit's Blog

1/21/11
I have a speaking engagement coming up in the next few weeks. They have titled it, “So You Want To Be A Writer?” If you were to ask me that question today… I would say yes. If you were to have asked me that question ten years ago, I would have said … yes. If you would have asked me that question forty years ago (now I’m telling on myself) I would have told you…no!
Why?
Because forty years ago- I knew I already was a writer! So, forty years ago… what did you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that you were? Why is it that the older we get, the less convinced we sometimes become of who we are? This is an epiphany that struck me 7 years ago. I was a writer and yet hadn’t written other than journaling in decades. Why? Because things like, mortgage bills, marriage and motherhood took precedence. I was so busy living my life; I forgot what it was I wanted to do with my life. Then God looked down one day and saw me amongst the fray and decided that I needed a reminder. A wake up call if you will… an alarm clock! Ironically it came in the form of a tumor, but then who said the good Lord doesn’t have a sense of humor!?! And so, somewhere under the knife… the great architect of the universe told me to get about my business, smiled a huge smile- slapped me on the butt, sent me back and told me to get at it!
I did… and I continue to do it every day. Why? Because for me, ink is no less than oxygen. I must write in order to breathe. Now, here’s another clue as to how I got where I am and what it is that I do. When I was a kid, I used to pray to be the first kid on the block to have a vision of the Blessed Virgin. Why? Mostly because I grew up in Iowa and there wasn’t a lot else to do there! Beyond that, I was jealous of those three kids at Fatima. Here they were talking to deity- getting information directly and there was I…lost in parochial limbo.
A pig-tailed, plaid nightmare sitting in the third row listening to it second hand from Sr. Angelita while writing JMJ on the top right corner of my papers wondering why the Blessed Virgin wouldn’t share her secrets directly with me. Didn’t I go to confession? Hadn’t I done all the right things and said all the right prayers?
Decades later my mother died… and when she did, she suddenly became the only mother I wanted to hear from on the other side. When my father joined her, I ached for the sound of his voice as well. And so, hard as I might pray–I heard nothing.
Until… I met a man in an 8×10 photo. His name was Charley. And while he is a man of few words, he tends to say a lot.
One of his first words was… Phoenix.
Until today… I thought I knew what it meant.

This entry was posted on January 21, 2011 at 5:43 pm and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.