My aunt was a teacher. She taught 4th grade for years and years and I adored her. One of my favorite things to do was write stories on notebook paper and then mail them to her to read. She would read them, and then....here's the best part....she would send it back with notes and encouragement. I LOVED it!
I've always loved writing. When I was a kid I would fill notebook after notebook with stories, poems, and an occasional illustration or two. I had dreams of becoming a writer, of making it BIG. I thought I was a pretty good writer. Darn good, in fact. However, looking back, perhaps my aunt just did a really good job of stroking my ego. That said, I did always do well in English and have been told I have a knack for it.
So what happened? I think life caught up with me. I grew up and as the years went by the idea of being a professional writer sounded sillier and sillier. Even now, I think maybe I should have pursued it. Maybe gotten a degree in English and taught high school kids how to write essays properly and cite their sources. Perhaps I would have gone on to publishing; moved to New York and become a huge success story in the publishing business.
Even now I still secretly, in the back of my head, think that I would like to make it a career somehow. They say you should write about something you know. The obvious thing, to me, would be to write about PTSD and how it has affected my marriage, my kids, my life in general. But I just don't know what route to take with that. I feel like our story isn't done....how can I write an incomplete story? I could tell our story so far....but wouldn't that cheat the reader at the end? There's no ending yet. I don't know how our PTSD story will end. I am hopeful it will end with a happy ending, but who knows?
Still.....Something to think about.