I’ve been reading other writers lately, and the first of the year seems to make people want to find out why they are writers. “What or who influenced you to want to write”, they ask. Influences? Please, there are too many to count. Neil Gaiman likened it to compost:
…you don’t even necessarily understand [when you’re young] where all your influences are coming from, or what they can mean, nor should you. They compost down anyway, good influences, no matter how old you are. It’s like when you put the scraps onto your compost heap: eggshells, and it’s half-eaten turnips, and it’s apple cores, and the like. A year later, it’s black mulch that you can grow stuff in. And influences, good ones, are that too. Trying to figure out what’s influenced you is as difficult as taking the black mulch, and saying this used to be half an apple.
I was a reader before I ever thought about being a writer. Reading took me to places of magic. (I read a lot of fairy tales.) But I also read Pilgrim’s Progress, Little Women, and Black Beauty. I think writing allows an author to escape and build the world they want. That is where the magic comes in. Writing can transport. No matter where you write or what you write, there is magic in putting words together, whether in your journal, or letter to a friend.
Yes, I still write letters. I remember my grandmother used to enjoy writing to her brother in Michigan, and she loved getting letters in return. She wrote letters of several pages, and receiving a letter in return meant she explained that her brother, Fred, had gone to Michigan to find work. Then came family history and when her brother and his family visited, the writing came to life. Definitely, magic.