For the past several days I have been staying with my mom while recovering from knee surgery. It’s been very relaxing and she’s not the type of person who hovers so I’m actually getting a lot of editing and writing done. (Yay for not having to go to my day job!)
I’m actually staying in my mom’s room since it’s bigger and can accommodate all the equipment one bum knee requires. But as I sit here and look around the I realize I’m surrounded by greatness. I’m not talking about the color of the walls or the view from her window. I’m talking about the fishing pole in the corner that my great grandfather made for my mom when she was a child, and the two quilts on the bed (yes two because my mother insists on having the air at full blast), one quilt made by each of my great grandmothers, or the bed itself and a ring that sits on the dresser that were my great aunts. I’m talking about the things that have survived and been passed down.
As I look at these things I wonder how much of me is like any of these people. Do I have quirks that they did? What features of mine are most like them? Are my dreams and aspirations like any of theirs were? Mostly I wonder if writing is in my blood. Did any of my greats write anything that I don’t know about or did they want to write something, but never did? I sort of wish I had something they’d written, even if it was a letter or old school assignment; something that would give me a glimpse of who they were or would have shown me their ‘voice’.
My point in all of this is that as I write I hope I’m able to give this glimpse of myself to my future greats. I hope that the words on the page carry a part of me with them and that I stay true to who I am as I continue to develop my craft. I don’t want to ‘fake’ it. I don’t want to write something just because I think it would attract a certain agent or publisher, or because I think it would sell well. I want my story to be my own and hope that by doing that the story will be great itself.