Finding my voice

I was nearly three years old before I began to talk. My parents assumed I would talk when I was ready, until the day one of Dad’s coworkers learned that her young daughter would never talk. This news concerned my parents, prompting a visit to the family doctor. The doctor, also a family friend, was kind but frank. “Sherry doesn’t talk because she has no need to talk. Stop giving her what she wants every time she grunts and she’ll talk soon enough.”

My parents must have followed the good doctor’s advice. Throughout my childhood, Dad teasingly called me a chatterbox. I once overheard Mother tell a friend, “We didn’t think Sherry would ever talk. Now we don’t think she’ll ever hush.” More than one supervisor has assured me I have no problem meeting, and exceeding, the “communication” element of my employee performance plan.

I must confess… I love words. I made up for my delayed speech by learning to read early. I was four years old when my uncle discovered I could recognize printed words. As Dad told the story, we were visiting my uncle at his service station when I walked up to a flyer, looked for a moment, and said, “Public Auction.”

Uncle looked at Dad. “Can Sherry read?”

“Naaah… Sherry can’t read. She’s only four years old.”

At that, Dad recalled how Uncle sat me on the counter with a copy of the local newspaper. Dad was dumbfounded as I read from the front page. Later, at home, Dad asked Mother if she knew I could read.

“Sherry can’t read. She’s only four years old.”

Dad located our copy of the weekly newspaper, Mother watching in amazement as I read out loud. Both had heard me repeating words from the “Little Golden Books” Mother read to me, but both presumed I had memorized parts of the story and associated them with the pictures.

Once I started school, I was introduced to the wonders of the library. I was hooked the minute I met Dick and Jane, although I soon left them to their adventures to solve mysteries with Nancy Drew and Cherry Ames. I was in third grade when I realized that I could write my own story. I still have the first story I ever wrote, in eight-year-old penciled scrawl, during a Christmas vacation. Over the years, my favorite assignments were always those that involved writing.

I still love to write, and I love the feeling that comes when my words resonate with others. I have been attempting for years to launch a successful blog. My most recent attempt represented posts of some of my better, earlier articles, with an introduction declaring that I was back to stay. I had the best of intentions, determined to post at least one blog entry each month. I made two additional posts and started my 2015 Non-Fiction Writer’s Month project, honestly thinking I was finally on a roll.

Over six months later, I’m still struggling with the next post. I, known among my friends and peers as someone never at a loss for words, am at a loss for words.

Oh, I’m writing words… one need only look in the “My Documents” folder on my hard drive to see the evidence. But those words are, frankly, as dry as burned toast. I don’t want to post just for the sake of posting. I want my words to resonate with my readers, but those words also represent who I am. I have all these ideas rattling around in my head, but I feel the need to close the loop on my absence first, to assure my readers that I really am back to stay. I suppose I could take a cue from television, where a character can disappear without a trace and suddenly step back into her life months later as though she’d never left. In context of something I love so much, that just doesn’t feel right to me.

I recently read that an author should write purely for the love of writing. I couldn’t agree more. That love compels me to the keyboard, draws the words from within me to the screen, accounts for the fits and starts and snippets of articles on my hard drive. The only way I can resolve my absence with my passion to write is to just declare that today is the day I start again.

I’m back…

Copyright 2016 Sherry A. Hathaway. All rights reserved.