For me it’s about the joining the conversation. When you’re a reader, you are listening. When you write, you express. I was a reader early in life. The library was my refuge from a . My siblings were readers. I was exposed to good books and a bit of fun trash. It occurred to me at an early age that I would like to join that conversation, add my two cents.

Getting back to writing now– no longer a kid, no longer a MFA student — lately I’ve been thinking a lot about those early inklings. Decades passed while otherwise occupied, but here I am, still wanting to write.

Books that I read as a kid that I still think about:

• obvious works by C.S. Lewis, Laura Ingalls Wilder, Beverly Cleary
• over thirty Nancy Drew mysteries
• Chronicles of Prydain by Lloyd Alexander (so good!)
• Flambards (pre BBC)
• Too many Louisa May Alcott novels– obscure ones like Jack and Jill, Eight Cousins and Under the Lilacs.

Somehow I stumbled upon a British author, Ruth M. Arthur, who wrote just the right kind of book for my taste. Her stories featured girls in a contemporary setting, and always some minor drama complicated their lives. A hint of magic– a grandmother who could tell fortunes who was a bit of an outlier, a ghost, a sixth sense, a talisman– added the secret sauce that made the books fun to read.

When I started my current work in progress these old Ruth M. Arthur books from the 1970’s were heavy on my mind; that hint of magic was what made them good. I went searching for copies. Nothing was available in my corner of Michigan, but I hit pay-dirt with the reach of melcat, our statewide inter-library loan system. I can’t say the books hold up. They aren’t great works of art, but I do see why they were the right book for me at the time that I read them. They made me want to be a writer.

The book that I read when I was young that has held up after multiple re-readings is Jane Eyre. Gothic-Victorian is not for everyone, but it works for me. Jane Eyre’s a big fat book. One cannot read it in a single sitting, but one can get totally caught up in the story and stay there for a week or more. Reading it made me feel smart; I was a girl who could read a big fat book and, for the most part, find meaning in those long descriptive passages. I could empathize with this orphan girl who felt unappreciated and admired her moral compass that defied other people’s expectations. “I will be myself!” declares the passionate protagonist.

Favorite movie version, you ask? Orson Wells and Joan Fontaine, of course.

So why am I writing now?

I was all into it in the eighties (first creative writing degree, first publications) and throughout the nineties (MFA, more publications, active writing group in Alaska). Then I got frustrated with the part where I was trying to support myself. I decided to go back to school and get another masters, this time in library science. I met B, fell in love, got married, had a baby. Life became very full, very busy.

Then the baby grew up and moved into the dorms. I had time to read again, read books that had nothing to do with trying to be good parent. I found some books that were well-written, had meaning, and were fun to read; they had a little magic in them.

Again, I want to join that conversation.