The Collected Words

When I was a little girl, I kept a notebook of words that I loved. Words that intrigued me or stood out as I devoured book after book, words that sounded elegant or snappy both in my head and as I practiced saying them out loud. Words that looked pretty on paper. I’d go to the rows of encyclopedias and dictionaries that my parents bought from a traveling salesman, and I’d look those words up, carefully writing the definitions with my treasured, bright-colored ink pens. That lifelong love of words and language, reading literature of all genres, writing of every kind? It never went away.

I am still a collector of words, gathering them like fireflies in glass jars, storing them in my mind – and admittedly still in a notebook – as if on a shelf to look at in wonder and awe.

My writing comes from my child-self, sitting at my grandmother’s dining room table with my favorite tools, a cardboard box of crayon nubs and snapped pencils, folded printer paper, and a fervent imagination.

I wrote as a third-grader about seeing the deer and the trees, phrases and images that popped into my head, that I painted with words onto the paper. They said my work impressed, and they gave me an award. I read my poem in front of an audience, more worried about my bothersome, itchy white sweater set than reading my words to the crowd in front of me.

In high school and college, I read short stories that haunted me, and I cried when Shakespeare killed Romeo and then Juliet. I highlighted and underlined my way through Dante’s journey and Chaucer’s tales. I felt empathy and understanding for Grendel’s mother’s revenge. I read the roadmaps of Jane Eyre’s and Celie’s lives and loved them more with every page.

The best way for me to engage with literature was to teach it to others. I earned a degree that allowed me to, and I did. I taught the words on paper, and the ways to get words out of students’ heads. People said I was good, that they could see I cared, that I held a fire of passion for the kids and my work, and they gave me honors that I’ll forever declare some of my greatest achievements.

I let go of the job I loved to be with my babies, to take a front-row seat at raising them and watching them grow. I read to them when they were little, hundreds of books, thousands of books, showing them the magic of other worlds and lives, people like them and people completely different. Through those books, I shared the joy of silliness, the limitlessness of possibilities, the vastness of imagination.

Longing for a place to share my heart, I posted pieces to a blog. I flooded my screen with stories of hardships and hope in motherhood, the hardest and most beautiful season of my life, sharing much, holding tightly to even more.

Now I write for me – but also for the world – with bated breath, vulnerable and raw. I write with a yearning to tell stories that matter, hoping to share words that leave meaning. I thank you now, sincerely, for being a part of my work and for sharing your encouragement and love. I’m honored to have you here where I will continue to post blog entries, updates on my very first novel, as well as ways for you to interact and do some writing of your own, whether you’re a seasoned writer and reader or just dabbling.

Welcome, all of you, to this space where I get to continue my journey of writing, where I have the honor of sharing it all with you. Thank you for being here.

Kara