Sunday afternoon. I drive my beat up old car. The radio blares a rock station. There are no child car seats in my car, no children, no errands to run. I’m on my way to a writer’s gathering at a local coffee shop.
I will work on my novel. I will partake in writing exercises at the event. I will write this post. I will complete my sentences and I will not be interrupted. I am free for the day.
It feels strange. Something is wrong. Something is missing.
I write for my monkeys, Sam and Victoria. I write for the legacy I wish to leave them and because I have so many words that I need to say. I write so that children see themselves in my writing and have heroes they can grow to love.
Being touched by a book like Charlotte’s Web or Anne of Green Gables has left me with a need to pay it forward. Books for me were my ticket to a new way of life. I write so I can offer that ticket to other children.
I write with my monkeys on my back, for those monkeys, for your monkeys, who cannot wait to turn a page and be transported to another world.
I write so that my children can remember me in years to come.
No matter which monkey hangs on my back at any given moment or what coupon I use as note pad, I write best when they hang on me, reminding me why I write.