For reasons I don’t need to go into here, I have spent much time these last two months with my older sister.  Much quality time.  Much time talking about our common past, our parents, the messages we got as children, our remembered experiences.  Much laughter,  many tears.  It has been unparalleled.

What stands out for me is the realization of our shared love of reading, of words, of storytelling and the equally shared experience of an interior wordy imagination, that incessant flow of stories in our heads.  She writes too.  Many of my cousins also write.  Like me, some have only come out of the closet as writers relatively recently.  Others published early on.

While I cannot say I have always written (forget that grade 5 poetry contest I entered and did not win), I realize now that writing and what is formative for a good writer have been in my history and a large part of my family culture since forever.  So maybe I can say I was born a writer.