So You Want to be a Writer? (Tara Taylor Quinn)

I've been unpacking this week. Going through boxes and files that have accumulated over a lifetime, sorting things out, throwing away things that I didn't even know I had. And I found some great treasures, too.

Among them were the early scribblings of TTQ. Now I have to tell you, I've always known I was a writer. From the first story I penned at age six, I was hooked. I titled it "It Happened One Night" and it was about a little girl waking up in bed to find an intruder in the house. She went in to wake her mother and the two of them decided not to wake the dad because he wouldn't be able to do anything anyway. Instead these two females, the child and her mother, took care of the bad guy themselves (the reader is never quite sure how) and then they go back to bed. It didn't occur to me until recently that, for a six year old girl, that story was pretty dark. And telling, too, I'd say. Wonder how my father felt when he read it???

I also find it kind of cool that I now write suspense novels. This validates my belief that I've always known my purpose, always known who I was and what I was here to do. How many people, at six years of age, begin the career that will fulfill and complete them for the rest of their lives?

Wasting time I didn't have to waste, spending time I needed to spend, I delved further into my early writings. And I'm sorry to say, found that, even as a teenager, I was a dark and lonely soul. This newfound knowledge has kind of been driving me crazy this week. What made me this way? Why wasn't I a happy, naive little kid like everyone else? Is this part of the gift? Part of what makes me a writer? If so, I embrace it. If not, well dang, I want to go back and have do overs and think about swinging on swing sets.

The other thing I was sad to find was that I really wasn't very good. I remember keeping journals, pouring out my heart on the sacred pages, thinking I was creating things that other people would want to read if I'd ever let them. Which I knew I never would. Reading these pages now I wonder why I ever thought I was a writer!

They weren't all bad, though. I thought, today, I'd do what I told me back then I never would. I'd let someone else read them. So here goes. This first piece was written after I'd visited my brother's grave with my parents for the first time.

They stand together - he and she
Quietly holding hands, knowing each others thoughts
Together they look down
Together they remember

Do they think of the creation?
The joy, the wonder, the hopes, the awe?
Does the love that created, comfort?

Do they remember the early years?
The fears, the learning, the watching, the growing?
Do the pictures of smiles bring smiles?

She busies herself with cleaning.
Find a cloth; make it shine
He tidies the grass
Pull the weeds; check the flowers

Together they kneel at the stone
Hurtfully accepting, sharing each others pain
Together they grieve
As together they loved.

And this one, when we sold the home we'd built when I was fourteen:

We're closing your doors for the last time.
Does the key in your lock stab your heart?
It stabs mine.

We've decided it's time, it's necessary, it's smart.
We say its for teh best - yours?, ours?
Is it right?

Will you be good to our memories?
Will you hold them close, keep them sacred?
Will you always known who chose that wall, that fixture, that color?
Or will we fade away - be lost?

We're closing your doors for the last time...

After reading books of this stuff, I started to worry about that young girl. Most people just move, don't they? But not me. I had to make it an emotional production.

I'm happy to report, however, that apparently I did have some light-hearted moments. There was the one about going to the store and buying an ink pen. And about making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. There was a 500 word essay on a pebble. And a dissertation about my two poodles being people. And this following doozy, that's so embarrassing I thought I'd pass it along to leave you with a cringe, and the sure proof that you don't have to show any real talent to become what you want to be. Just believe you have it, believe you are what you want to be, and you can become that person. I'm standing here before you, a living testimony to that fact. Just read on, you'll see!

A lollipop's a simple thing if all you do is lick
The most that will concern you is a flavor on a stick

But if you care to look beyond the simple things in life
You'll see that ev'n a lollipop can cause a body strife.

For what m'dear would you reply if a stranger were to say
Excuse me sir, please pardon me, what stained your tongue that way?

And how can you be sure to know the taste that you are buying,
When colors tell your flavor but sometimes the color's lying?

What if you went into a store with but a dime to spare
And found when you got up to the line they charge a quarter there?

And when you try to take a lick but have a need to speak
You'll find that teeth and lollipops cause rattlin' in your cheek.

And once the lollipop gets wet, you'll see without a doubt
You cannot set it down again unless you throw it out.

It sticks to everything in reach including hair and dirt
And if it slips away from you it sticks onto your shirt.

Another hazard you will find is that it's fragile too
If dropped it shatters on the spot no matter what you do.

And if you try to break the rules and chew instead of lick
You can't unstick it from your teeth or get rid of it too quick

So now you know the moral of the story has to be
Always search beyond the guise of pure simplicity.