On the wall of my office hangs a frame containing a torn, yellowing copy of the school creed of Woodrow Wilson Junior High School of Eugene, Oregon. The creed was composed in 1932 by a 15-year-old girl who won first place for it in a school-wide competition. It is remarkably well written, in clean, crisp prose—a testament to the intelligence and eloquence of its young author. The girl was given a $5.00 reward for writing the creed, and was honored at a school assembly. The creed hung in the main hall of Woodrow Wilson Junior High for decades. The girl was my mother.
If she hadn’t graduated from high school in the middle of the Great Depression, my mother would have gone to college, and I have no doubt that she would have spent a lifetime writing. Instead, she went to work in her brother-in-law’s clothing store, got married, waited four years while my father fought in World War II, then had five kids, five grandchildren, and six great grandchildren. She never wrote anything but an occasional letter.
Still, this isn’t a sad story. It isn’t a tale of thwarted talent or lost opportunity. My mother wasn’t bitter or even sad about not having become a writer. She liked her life. She loved being a wife. She enjoyed being a mom so much that she adopted three children in addition to her two birth kids. She kept a spotless home and made incredible old-fashioned meals with meaty entrees and homemade biscuits and luscious pies. She created beautiful Christmases for us and fun birthdays and took us to piano lessons and ballet. And she did something else: She fostered my writing.
The urge to play with words must have infected me in the womb—or maybe my mother’s love of language altered my infant brain—but before I knew how to write the alphabet, I started telling stories, which I longed to put into print. My mother understood that need: She took the time to write my earliest stories down in little books that I could keep. When I published my first work of fiction in the children’s section of a newspaper at the age of 10, she sat at the kitchen table reading my work again and again. Years later, when I was struggling to eek out a living as a writer, she sent me money when I didn’t have rent and, for a time, put me up in the back bedroom of her house as I labored through novels and magazine articles.
This week—the second week of my writing pilgrimage—is devoted to gratitude. At the top of my list of those I want to thank is my mom. I never sit down at my desk without thinking of her contribution to my writing. Because it went beyond motherly support—it was deeper than just wanting your kid to be happy. My mother offered me help and companionship that could only come from someone who knew in her heart what it meant to write. Who understood deeply the urge, the impulse, to put pen to paper. My mother’s gift wasn’t just that of a loving mother to her daughter. It was the gift of one writer to another.
Hi, I just found your site and followed you on Twitter. writing has always been a scared path tgo me, but right now I’m empowering myself to speak louder and clearer. Thanks for your inspiration. They tell me that I inspire people too, so I’m about to get out there and do a lot more of it.
Hi Tahlia. I’m so glad you found inspiration in my work. I’m sure you will inspire many people!
Let me know if you ever publish your book on ebook.
I will let you know. At this point, it’s just available in paper, at bookstores and on Amazon.