Early grade school teachers who asked me to read them to the class, and then a school librarian who would take the little storybooks I wrote and illustrated and laminate them so other kids could borrow them from the shelves right along with the published books. Luckily, I was fortunate to know many wonderful people who encouraged me to write my stories. It became a habit that continued long after she got better. She told me once that I was the only one who understood her then, and when she’d get frustrated I’d often speak on her behalf to the rest of the family. I’ve been told that while I was learning to talk in full sentences, she was learning how to form understandable words again. Fortunately she survived, but with temporary limb paralysis and the inability to speak clearly. When I was two years old, she suffered a debilitating stroke that was caused by an aneurysm in her head. Mom and I shared a special bond over words. I used to follow her around the house reciting my story pages while she cleaned or made meals. I think she probably got impatient listening to the longwinded versions and figured it might be faster to skip through to the good parts by reading them herself. Once I did learn how to write sentences, my mother encouraged me to document what she called my visions. One of the many benefits of being the baby in the family. As long as chores got done, the adults rarely nagged about how long it took for me to complete them. To their credit, they never made me feel like I was fibbing or telling tall tales. I come from a long line of creative types, so having a good imagination wasn’t unusual, but nobody was a writer so they had no idea that the voice talking to me was my muse. My grandma said those wayward thoughts happened because my imagination was playing tricks on me. Understandably, the strange name kind of creeped out my parents. I gave that voice an unusual name: Kikose. Then I’d lose chunks of time while watching a story unfold in my mind like movie scenes on TV. Right after my name was called the daydream would begin to take shape. Since it was never a voice I recognized, I knew it wasn’t anyone in my family calling for me. As a small child, when I was told to do something boring like make my bed, I’d stop in the middle of the task once I heard somebody call my name. Long before I knew I was a writer, before I learned how to even write full sentences, I thought everyone made up stories and characters in their minds.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. ArchivesCategories |