When I was lying awake in the wee, small hours this morning--as I so often do--a memory popped into my mind for no reason I can think of. It was the memory my father sitting on the side of my bed when I was four or five, telling me and my younger sister bedtime stories. I don't remember the story lines, but I'll never forget desperately wanting to know what happened next.
My father was a Harvard-trained lawyer and not someone you would expect to have a particularly vivid imagination, but he made up stories that held us rapt. Actually, it was one long story, told episodically, like the 1930's radio serials he had grown up with. The heroine was Iva Marie, a plucky young lady of uncertain age but old enough to have adventures of her own with her maid/sidekick, Nettie Jane. The two girls were accompanied (and chauffeured) on their escapades through New York City by Tony the Taxicab Driver. As I recall, their adventures included all manner of "baddies", and at one point Tony had to drive the cab, with the girls inside, into the Hudson River to escape. With that kind of influence at an early age, I guess I shouldn't be surprised I ended up as a writer.
Fast forward thirty years to my own days as a young parent. When my daughter was born, I quit my job and stayed home with her for eight years. For the first three years, I was her primary playmate, and I loved it. I didn't create fantastic bedtime stories like my dad, but we did act out elaborate situations with her collection of Cabbage Patch dolls. While she was in charge of the stories, my job was to invent and maintain a different voice for each one. It was more of a challenge than you might think.
Somehow, subconsciously, the time I spent with these two natural storytellers must have spurred me to try my hand at writing fiction. In my mid-thirties, as soon as my daughter started preschool, I began my first book. And although that was many years and seven books ago, some things haven't changed. I still want to know what happens next.Alison
www.alisonhenderson.com
P.S. - as a retreat from the mid-summer heat or an antidote to political hoopla, my short story collection Small Town Christmas Tales is on sale for $0.99 all month!
13 comments:
That's the beauty of ideas and memories, Alison. They come to us from who knows where when we least expect it. My 'story' is almost the polar opposite of yours. My father happened to make his living as a writer. However, like you growing up, I always figured writing was the last thing I was going to do. Funny how life twists and turns us, huh?
I also remember my father reading to us and wanting him to continue when he stopped at a chapter's end. Thanks for sharing.
Alison, I could have written your 1st paragraph, although my H.S. girlfriend and I did write fan fiction even if we didn't know what it was called. I, too, hated creative writing assignments for the same reason you did. My classmates were so gifted. Not me. Now look at us. LOL BTW, my mom used to tell my younger siblings stories where her dog Poochie saved the day. I wished I'd written them down so I could tell them to my grandkids.
Seems I grew up to teach writing, not to write myself. But after retiring I had to see if I could do what I'd taught...in the genre I loved to read. So strange how we all got here. Thanks for the memories!
Margo, you've got to love those twists and turns. They make us what we are.
Barbara, I loved all bedtime stories - from a book or made up. I read several stories to my daughter every night for years and still have two boxes of our favorites stored away for her children.
Diane, I wish our tender, young brains could have held onto those wonderful old stories, too.
Rolynn, you're so right. It is funny to see how we all got here.
My grandma wrote a few stories when she was young. I may have inherited the urge from her. My daughters can imagine nothing worse than sitting at the computer writing all day--though they've both suggested they could (of course) write better books than me. So far neither has made it past the first page...
I always knew I would write because I just always did--I loved those themes in school and essays (in the form of blog posts anymore) are still my favorite things. But I was as shocked as anyone when I wrote a book, still more so when I kept at it until I sold one.
Alison, I also was much like you. I knew I enjoyed writing but didn't think my ideas were anything special. In face, I didn't consciously know I liked writing, until I was in college and took my first composition class. Something just clicked. Growing up, my sister and I made up stories about two young sisters whose father had gone off to war (our parents had divorced when we were quite young). Later, a girlfriend and I wrote radio scripts loosely based on one of the network news broadcasts. I don't think either of us thought of it as "writing." Thanks for bringing back such great memories!
Thank goodness for the story tellers in our lives. I started telling stories when I was very young, but also painted. I hung onto painting for many years until I realized I like story telling with words more. Love how your dad told his story.
Awww, I loved hearing about your past and the storytellers in it. Very sweet. Yes, it's no wonder you became a writer! Great bargain on your stories. If I didn't already own it, I'd buy it! :)
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