How I became a writer (and the single life)

It’s autumn now. The leaves turn gold and red. The Morning Glory vines have shriveled and turned brown, the chilly nights altering their assent toward the roof of the porch. Autumn makes me self-reflective and I’ve been thinking about where I’ve been and where I’m going. I consider the paths and opportunities available to me and these ideas remind me of my youth when all things were possible. I became a writer partly because of my mother’s insistence that I become a reader. She told me that books would “take me away” to far away lands, introduce me to interesting people, and teach me about the world.

My mother would strategically put books in places for me – on the back seat of the car and on the tank of the toilet. Always a book and a Reader’s Digest. This was pretty good thinking on her part because where else could I go when in a car or in the loo? But as a young girl, I wasn’t interested in books. I was interested in bugs and hanging around in the woods with my dog.

My mom read three newspapers everyday – “front to back”, as she liked to say – and before becoming a mother she read six books a week. She was voracious.

At some point, I got sick with a childhood illness. Frustrated with my inability to play outside, I picked up the Wizard of Oz. I remember the feel of that book. A waxy cover that cradled its pages nicely in my hand. I loved the weight of it, a bit floppy, but forming a complete tome symbolizing the world it held within. I was transformed.

Sometime after my Oz infatuation, I imagined that I was a news reporter. I’d take my reporter’s notebook out to the yard and interview my dog. I had a Polaroid camera too and took accompanying photos for my article on how Wags spent her day. In the evening, after my mother returned from work, I’d read to her the breaking news.

For much of my adult life, there has never seemed to be enough time to read all that I wanted to read or to explore all the notions I wanted to write about. There were children to raise and men to care for. There were homes to clean and businesses to run.

Now that I’ve become a single woman, my days and nights are delicious. I have sole ownership of me. The dishes do not need to be done immediately. I leave dirty laundry in the hamper for days. I spend afternoons wrapped in a sweater sitting on the porch reading books and newspapers for hours while the sun moves around the sky marking the time spent engrossed in some other world or learning some new topic. I daydream about stories to write and goals to accomplish. At night, I fall into deep uninterrupted sleep. I’m becoming myself again.

Funny how things turn out, isn’t it? I found that before I took the time to register to vote or renew my driver’s license, I sought out a library card. Here I am many decades later doing exactly what I did when I was ten years old – focused much less on dogs and bugs, but once again pursuing my interests, daydreaming afternoons away, and writing stories I wish to share with others.

Lisa Mikulski is an international writer/photographer based in Boston, MA. Available for print or online publications. Editorial, features, content development, and creative. Contact me to discuss your story.