"A Christmas Story," reads the title on the faded sheet of notebook paper that I have gingerly removed from a small box that sits on my bedside table. As I unfold the creases to reveal the short story inside, I recall the night that I tapped it out on the keys of my brand-new typewriter.

I like to take out the piece of paper from time to time, unfold it and read it again. It demonstrates to me the power of words. Each time I take in those words, I am taken back to a long ago winter night when a little girl used her Christmas gift to create what would become a gift to her older self. And each time I read that Christmas story, I find a sense of comfort in my life choices and the inspiration to keep practicing what I love.

Why did I want the typewriter? I don't clearly remember. Perhaps I fashioned myself a budding writer even then. I remember viewing episodes of The Waltons and wistfully watching as John Boy, the aspiring writer, sat at his window in the evening light putting pen to paper. Back then, I had no way of knowing that writing would be my unique gift and become my life's work. Perhaps my mother saw a gift in me then that I had not yet realized myself. 

Recently, I was flipping through TV channels when a familiar face caught my eye. It was John Walton Jr. himself, after all these years, come to visit me again through the medium of television. Even now, I can hear the familiar refrains of the Waltons wishing each other sweet dreams. 

When I turn out the light on this December night, I will say a silent goodnight to the woman who gave me many gifts, including one that impacted my life in ways I could never have imagined. She was an angel then and is with the angels now.

Goodnight, Mama. Goodnight, writers. Goodnight, readers. Goodnight, everyone.

Is there a Christmas memory from your childhood that still takes you back in time? Did you receive a special Christmas gift that impacted your life? Please share your thoughts in the Comments. 

Today's installment is for all my writer friends. If you've ever called yourself a writer, you've probably experienced writer's block. You know the agony of staring at a blank sheet of white paper or the glow of an empty computer screen. While this missive may not help you tame your own writer's block, perhaps we can gather here for a virtual commiseration of that pain we all experience at some point. Then again, maybe a kernel of something here will resonate with you ... and send you flying to grab your pen and get some thoughts down on paper.

Below I am sharing a poem I penned some years ago. It was born from the angst of an aspiring young writer. I was struggling to produce a work of poetry, but the words and inspiration just weren't there. I fought for days, searching for my muse. Finally, I just let it rest. A day or so later, an early iteration of the following poem came to me. In the end, my writer's block was my inspiration. 

I polished and refined the piece some years later for a creative writing class in college. Today I share that poem with you and salute another teacher who inspired me and guided my creativity to help me discover what was hiding just beneath the surface. She encouraged me to reach and dream. Betty Nelson, this one's for you. I hope you're enjoying your well-deserved retirement.

                               

Last December, an unlikely glance at an obituary in the newspaper led me to reconnect with a long-lost (but never forgotten) grade-school friend. That unlikely event also allowed me to rediscover long-forgotten memories that lay within the pages of my earliest work as a writer: my five-year diary.

Most girls of my era had one. You know the type: A colorful girly cover guarding dated pages within that serve up a five-year timeline of what you were doing and thinking on a particular day. There was always the requisite lock, intended to keep out the prying eyes of parents and siblings. I'm not sure how well that lock guarded my secrets, but I do know that unlocking the pages of my tattered little tome revealed events that would have remained forgotten if not for the proof — written by my own hand — that they occurred. There were events that had long since faded from my memory. Knitting a purse for my best friend. Boys that I mooned over but who had long since faded from memory. Seeing the movie Billy Jack three times. How devastated I was when my best friend moved away.

My diary was a constant friend during my youth, an item that I treasured long into adulthood. For a time, the book was lost. But thanks to a family member, it was rescued from a box of belongings taken from my mother's home after her death. The day that it arrived in my mailbox, it was like seeing an old friend. And when I reconnected with my childhood friend through that obituary, I pulled out my diary to relive our times together. In the process, I reconnected with my inner child — the young girl who loved reading books, listening to sappy love songs, roaming in the woods near home and writing down her thoughts in a diary.

Why do I write? For a variety of reasons. I love to read, and I cherish words and books. I also find joy in sharing stories, both my own and those of others. Putting thoughts and words on paper (or screen) can be cathartic. It's also a way to preserve and validate precious moments from my life — to prove that they happened. Somehow those moments take on new life when they are put into words.

Recently I read about a New York Times article that cited a woman taking the drastic measure of burning her diaries. I was aghast that any writer could bring herself to commit such an act. Since childhood, I've been scribbling stories, reflections and recollections onto everything from notebook paper to diaries to handmade journals. And I could never see my way to burn those precious pages and deny myself the privilege of returning to them and reliving the moments of life from whence they sprang.

Burn my journals? Destroy my diaries? Never. They are part of me and who I am. I'm not sure how or why my friend and I lost touch, and the intervening years have taken us light years away from the naive adolescents we once were. But in sharing with her the thoughts from my diary, I had the chance to reconnect with the little girl I once was. To remember her hopes and dreams — and to find the inspiration to keep pursuing the dreams of the woman she's become.

P.S. Special thanks to the friend who rescued and returned the diary. You know who you are.

Did you keep a diary as a youngster? Are you a journal writer as an adult? How has writing affected your life? To leave a response, click Comment(s) and enter information in the Leave A Reply form.