When I was young I loved to write. Each week my grandad would buy me an exercise book with his pension and I would fill the pages with stories, poems and song lyrics. I felt such freedom in my words.
Then my school class was asked by our teacher , what did we want to be when we were older? The answers ranged from builder to spaceman but i so wanted to be a writer. I wanted to be able to share my words with the world. I remember the teachers smile when I answered, how it never really reached his eyes and his comment about “not with your spelling”. The pain I felt at this response was physical like someone had actually kicked me in the stomach. I think I may have laughed it off replying “well after a dancer of course”. To which he seemed to accept.
I know I went home that night ready to rip to pieces the pages of my exercise books, the freedom of my words disappearing with each step. As usual my grandfather noticed my mood straight away and asked what was wrong. “My teacher doesn’t believe I can be a writer” i answered.
My grandad didn’t say anything for a while a custom of his, holding his tongue until he found the right words. Not something I have inherited that’s for sure. He then turned and looked at me and told me “You will write your own story”.
Of course I then waffled on about my stories would never be good enough and that my teacher stinks ( hey I was 11) but grandad just smiled and repeated “you will write your own story”.
If only I had known then how true his words would be.
I may not have become the greatest of writers or have a library filled with my works but I am writing my own story.
I’m allowing my words to fly free.
Because I write I can now revisit days full of memories with Livvy.
By forming written arguments I can passionately fight for those who are vulnerable and in need.
By baring my heart here on this blog I have had the privilege of supporting others who also have broken hearts, allowing them the freedom to grieve and to break.
I am writing my own story
It’s one full of joy and happiness but also one full of pain and sorrow. But my words are my heart and they are steps on my journey of life.
Grandad I hope you are reading my words in heaven. I hope you can see that I’m working hard on making my own story. I’m trying to fill my pages full of love and laughter.
My name may not be on any bookcover but I hope it’s on the hearts of my children and those of my family and my friends.
I know now what you meant about writing my own story and I promise you I’m not done yet.
I want to write many more chapters filled with memories and laughter. I want to create sentences full of hope and faith.
Words simply written in love.
I am writing my own story Grandad and I pray it’s one you are proud to read.