When I was a little girl, I always use to think I would grow up to be a writer.  I use to enjoy dreaming up elaborate stories, writing poetry, or making newspapers for my family. But some where along the road to adulthood, the mundane tasks of going to work and paying the bills took over.  Slowly my imagination gave way to conformity, and the creativity was pushed to the back of the mind; along with the realization that maybe nobody but my Grandpa was interested in my little stories.

My Grandpa was my hero.  I miss his non-judgmental wisdom, his ability to see the good in the most trying of people and his unwavering faith in all my hopes and dreams.  I loved to sit and talk with my Grandpa.  I would follow him to the museum as he gave tours. Join him on explorations of extinct volcanoes with his geology group. Drag him to primary school to give class talks (like on how Auckland first got electricity).  I would even ring him up (& occasionally get through) to chat while he was conducting his talk back radio segments.

Grandpa read a lot, and he was always writing.  I use to think how clever he was when I would see his name in the newspaper or in a magazine, even on the cover of his own books.  Be it his regular weekly articles, or his Sunday sermons, Grandpa always had a story to tell.

Grandpa told me my words were a gift.  He always encouraged me to keep writing. He bought me my first type writer when I was still very young, and I loved it.  Standing there taping away on the keys, I somehow envisioned that they validated the authenticity of my words, and made me a real writer.  Every weekend when he picked us up for Sunday school, I would produce him with a piece of my writing.  He would pay me a couple of dollars for it, and then proudly stick it in to a little blue notebook.  (regardless of how cringe worthy they may have been, looking back on them now)

Many years later my Grandma gave me the notebook, after he had passed away.  Turning the pages, I felt a huge sense of guilt that I had just stopped.  That I just gave up on something that use to mean so much to me. I regret seeing the irony in now working at the very institute, I once applied to study Journalism at. (I was advised there was not enough interest in the course, and therefore they would not be running it) Nonchalantly I applied for the same course my friend was interested in, instead.

I miss the feel of Grandpa’s whiskers, when I’d rest my face against his cheek.  The wrinkle of his skin when I’d entwine my fingers in his, as we went on one of our walks.  I  miss our random chats, his advice which never actually gave me the answer, but somehow guided me to find it my self.  He was always challenging me to write my next story.

As time continues to pass me by,  I suddenly find myself sitting in front of my lap top and deciding it is now or never.  Just try it.  Start a blog.  Keep writing