I wanted to be a naturalist when I was five. I loved animals. But I never could find specifics on the career. Then I decided to be a veteranarian – until my cat fell out of a sixth floor window. I knew I could never deal with that again.
Thing is, that I wrote through all of that. I began to write stories when I was ten.
Then I decided to be a poet. Or rather, a poet decided to be me, because I don’t consciously remember making the decision. So I wrote poetry.
Until, when I was fifteen, my brother decided that the poem I was so
proud of was too good. He said I must have “subconsciously copied a
poem I read somewhere.” (That was the great Era of Freud.)
Then I wanted to be a comedy writer because my new brother- in- law was
one, and it seemed a terrific thing to do.
When I graduated from college, I discovered there were only three viable female comedy writers in the Biz. It was a boy’s club.
Then I wanted to be a playwright.
Oh ho ho.
Fine in college. But outside in the real world?
Wrong gender again.
Then I decided to write publicity and PR, and I did.
Then I wrote for newspapers and was pubbed.
I wrote editorial type pieces that appeared in newspapers.
Magazine articles that appeared in magazines.
Then Romance novels – you know the rest.
The point is – I always wanted to write.
Because I always read.
And so did my mother, father, sister and brother.
We become what we admire. We try to emulate what we see.
My mother read agony soap opera kind of stories. My father loved mysteries.
My sister read me “Alice in Wonderland” and all sorts of wonderful stories before I went to sleep.
She married a man who wrote for all the big time comedians.
And my brother read and wrote, and became an international newspaper man.
We become what we see what we can be.
I have two children who are writers.
My year old grandson has a mother and a father who are both writers.
Needless to say, his favorite toys are books: in the crib, in the
playpen, in the bath! He teethes on books, and dogs. (Well, we do
have other passions in this family.)
I always wonder if children who never see books in their homes can
ever become writers.
There’s a magnet on my fridge that reads “A house without books is
like a body without a soul.”
But I see plenty of houses without books. (check your latest NY Times
Home Decorating issue. Nary a tome. Fah!)
Will today’s kids see their parents and sibs reading books?
That’s where the future of literature resides.
HOORAH for J.K.Rowling, whatever Dumbledore is or was!
Hoorah for parents who read.
Hoorah for books in the house.
A house is NOT furnished if there aren’t any books.
Interactive Video games are great. They are not literate.
Animals are said to think in images.
Humans are the only ones who can think in language, they claim.
(Though I think some of my Daisy’s bad dreams, when she twitches and
moans, are her hearing: “Bad dog!” – “No! No!” or – “Ooooh, what
did you do?”)
If our children watch TV and movies and play video games all day, will they lose the ability to think in words?
That’s the worst thing I can think of.
What about you? Did you have books in your home? Do your kids, or
your sib’s kids, or your friend’s kids, have books in their homes?
Let’s get them books out there!!!!
How can we do that?