Writing on Writing

I love to write. It’s a comfort that I clung to as a child and that I still revert back to whenever I feel the need to express myself. It calms me, centers me, and reminds me of who I am.

My earliest memories of writing started with my grandfather, Joaquin (also known as Pop). Pop was a retired civil engineer with Exxon, but as his granddaughter I really only knew him as a loving, playful, creative storyteller and writer! The most well-known “Pop story” was the one about a little Indian boy named Wicky Wakki. He would tell it to each of his 10 grandchildren and would change it each time so that each of us were the lead character in it, along with our friend Wicky Wakki, of course. It involved us being invited to celebrate Wicky Wakki’s birthday and when listing everyone who was invited to his party, Pop would list each of our cousin’s names. My sister, cousins and I still laugh whenever we reminisce about how Pop told the story. Our favorite part was how Pop would imitate the sound of the horses galloping to safety when we encountered a mean wolf. Pop would slap his knees and lift them slightly up, out of his chair, as he would make the sound of the horse’s hooves hitting the ground, “pa-ka-ta, pa-ka-ta, pa-ka-ta” …the sound of it was even cuter with Pop’s thick Spanish accent.

For as far back as I can remember my family and I would go to Pop and Abi’s house every Sunday to visit and play, and then stay for dinner. Some of my best childhood memories took place in their house and my interest in writing stemmed from watching Pop writing on his typewriter. One Sunday, when I was maybe 8 years old, he surprised me with my own little desk beside his. He gave me some paper and pencils and I started to write along with him. Some of my writings (short stories and poems) I would share with him and he always seemed to love what I had to say and would type them up for me upon request.

Fast forward to the fourth grade when I experienced the loss of my mom. It was shortly after this that I started to write again. At first it was in the form of letters. My Aunt Olgita who lives in Atlanta gave me a set of watercolor paints and I thought it would be fun to make colorful stationary with them and write letters to each of my cousins, aunts and uncles with them. Many of my relatives wrote me back, which made it that much more fun, and I started to enjoy the idea of having a pen pal. My best friend from elementary school, Abigail, moved away in the fifth grade with her family to Texas and she and I would write “snail mail” to each other all the time. My spelling was horrendous but I think that made my letters that much more fun to read! Kind of like decoding, and boy did we love making up funny acronyms for everything too!

In my middle school years, I got into journaling. Like most young teenage girls in the 90s I was into pretty dark, depressing, music. The sounds and lyrics of Fiona Apple, Tori Amos, Jewel, Sarah McLachlan and Alanis Morissette would fill my tiny square bedroom, accompanied by many lit candles and burning incense. I would write about whatever was on my mind; sometimes about boys, but most of the time I wrote about my mom and how much I missed her. Writing became therapeutic for me, a place to turn to when I didn’t have a friend who understood what I was feeling. While all of my girlfriends were having daily fights with their moms about their fashion choices or their overuse of their shared landline- I was secretly wishing I had my mom to argue with like that.

“I would ace every book report without ever opening the book and I remember bombing my SATs and then receiving the highest score on the Florida Writes essay exam. It’s funny the things you remember. ”

Come high school I was convinced that school just wasn’t for me. The only subject I somewhat enjoyed and excelled at was English; not for the literature but for the writing portion of it. I would ace every book report without ever opening the book and I remember bombing my SATs and then receiving the highest score on the Florida Writes essay exam. It’s funny the things you remember. I’m pretty sure the only people that remember even taking the Florida Writes are those who scored a 5 on it. It’s the smallest deal of all the exams in high school, but for me it was the confidence boost that I so needed at that time.

I remember writing some pretty badass college entry essays because I knew that was the only thing that would possibly get me into a decent university with my average grades and SAT scores. In my freshman year at the University of Central Florida I declared myself as an English major and dove into the world of fiction writing. For the first time in my life I was learning about things that mattered to me and I was also figuring out that studying actually does work. After two years of killing it in undergrad I was able achieve my goal and transfer to the University of Florida. From there my life took off in every possible way. I flourished as a Gator and my affinity for writing grew even more.  

So proud to be a Florida Gator Family!

Fast forward and here I am- 37 years old- a mom- in quarantine- with plenty of time to sit and think, and write. When I started this blog a couple months ago, I didn’t know what its real purpose was, or if people would even care about reading a writing blog. I for one don’t follow any! I remember telling myself before I launched my site, that it didn’t matter if 5 people read it, or if 500 read it. I knew not everyone would connect with it or get it and I was okay with that. I am only about 10 blogs in and I have already learned so much about myself and about why I wish to continue doing this.

I have learned that writing is just as much about the reader as it is about the writer. It connects us. What I write is about me and my experiences and my perspective on things, but it is also about my readers and what they take away from reading what I choose to write about. I discovered that I actually do care how many people see my writings because the more people who see it, the more people I can possibly help in some small but meaningful way. I never know what battles you’re fighting in your life when you choose to read my blog. I don’t know how my words will be interpreted by you or how my stories will make you feel, but OMG the biggest gift for me so far is when I get to find out the answers to this!

When I posted my last blog about my feelings on Mother’s Day as both a mom and also as a daughter who is missing her mom, I didn’t know what to expect. I felt nervous writing it and I must have edited it about 20 times, removing a ton of things from it, rewording sections of it and making sure the message was clear. Even still it took a lot for me to hit “save and publish” on my site. What I found was that it resonated with so many more people that I ever expected and in ways that never even occurred to me while writing it.

“I heard from friends of mine who never met my mom and they told me that hearing the way I talk about my mother makes them think of me and how I mother my own children. They said it sounded like I was describing myself. Best compliment I could ever receive!”

I heard from both moms and dads who are also motherless and could relate to every word. They told me how reading memories I shared about my mom helped jolt memories they had with theirs. I heard from friends of mine who never met my mom and they told me that hearing the way I talk about my mother makes them think of me and how I mother my own children. They said it sounded like I was describing myself. Best compliment I could ever receive! I heard from a friend of mine who has a girlfriend who is battling cancer and doesn’t have that much time left. She told me how sharing my blog with her friend has helped her friend think of ways she can prepare her own children for when she passes away. I heard from my sister who thought of more memories she had with our mom which led to a great phone call of us reminiscing together about our mom (our “moo moo”). I heard from my mom’s cousin Karen who saw the photos I shared of my mom from when she was growing up and she was able to explain one-by-one where and when each photo of my mom was taken, and who all the people were in the photos with her. I heard from people who were without their mom on Mother’s Day for the first time ever due to social distancing and they appreciated my outlook and the reminder that they still have their mom in their lives, even if separated temporarily, and that’s what should be celebrated. I heard from other moms who told me that reading my blog has inspired them to start writing again. Every single one of these warms my heart and makes me believe even more so in the power of writing.

The most incredible feedback I received though, came from a man my age. He prefaced his comment to me by stating that he isn’t a parent, but that he could relate to my blog because he too is motherless. He told me that my words resonated with him because this was going to be his 14th Mother’s Day without his mom. He private messaged me and told me how reading my blog possibly saved his life. He told me that prior to reading my blog he was thinking about going on a run, meaning a relapse of using drugs and alcohol to help numb the pain of the holiday. He told me that certain parts of my blog about my mom gave him a new perspective on being “motherless”. He even quoted parts of it back to me that struck him, about how we can speak about our moms in the present tense still, because they ARE always with us. I was blown away by this. Like completely humbled and moved to tears, blown away. My heart felt so good knowing that by simply sharing parts of my story I was able to help someone I hardly know with parts of theirs.

I am the little one in the middle. My sister, Lori, is to my left and our mom is to my right.

What I am realizing with each blog I share is that part of my love of writing isn’t just the process of this craft, but it’s the interpersonal connections that can unfold from it. We are living in a unique time where we are literally being told to stay away from each other, to keep our distance (and for good reason), but writing is just one creative way that we can all stay together. Our words and thoughts are so powerful. And virtual hugs are in fact real; I can feel them. The beauty of writing is that it forces us to slow down, much like these past two months of living in quarantine has. It forces us to see ourselves for who and what we truly are. It allows us to feel, to think, to analyze and evaluate, to imagine and create. It allows us to heal and grow. And it connects us all, if we choose to open our minds and hearts to one another.

Stay Safe and Write On!

Start ‘em young! Conner has been writing his own book series during the quarantine and enjoys sharing copies of them with his friends in the neighborhood!