I never know what to write about myself…I like to write about **other** people, either real ones or ones I make up in my head.

I’ve always written, always secretly considered myself a writer and a groupie of writers. From the age of 9, when my Dad had his secretary type my poems out, to the day I showed my angst ridden self absorbed poems to a favorite professor and he said (briefly but succinctly) “You’ve got it, honey” and then went on to tell me that I reminded him of his wife, also a writer, also quite shy, also a fan of Laura Ashley while harbouring dark and mysterious thoughts; I’ve been infected with the “bug”…I am a writer. I can’t help it.

But then, being me, I have wondered, “Yes, but am I any **good** at it?” for about as long as well.

My middle aged self is just about ready to say “who cares” and just put it all out there…I think this goes in tandem with the day one (I) realizes with horror that she will have to go to the pool, **looking like a bleached, blotchy cow** with her children and yes, will have to be in a bathing suit…

There wasn’t the mass exodus from the pool that I semi-expected. Really, life went on.

And so it goes with the idea of giving myself a website for my writing up to this point. If nothing else, it serves the purpose of allowing me the grace of watching life go on. No one running in horror at my words.

Once, when I was quite young, I wrote a short story. I had been a fan of Faulkner at the time, and sought to imitate him (I was young). My grandmother had just died, and the man who presided over the burial, a pastor of some sort, had never met my grandmother. It struck me as the ultimate symbol of the lack of depth in our modern lives, of the lack of meaning, the lack of true connection.

It was horribly written, but had some good ideas, I still think. However, it was not a sweet, nice story that a young well bred girl should write, and my entire family (mom, new step dad, dad, new step mom) were horrified.

Another time, when I was even younger, I wrote a story about a concentration camp. It was really ugly, but I think well written. Again, I was a shy, sweet looking girl. I showed this story to my English teacher, who became very worried and was, really, horrified. It was a shockingly graphic story.

Last: I also have kept journals since I was very young. Once, I found the beginning of a “western” written when I was most likely around 11 years old. The heroine enters a bar, orders a drink, and announces she has just killed someone…something like that.

I read this out loud to my four boys, who thought it was awesome and blurted out: “you should be a writer, mom!”

So it goes.

Feel free to contact me if you want…especially if you like anything I’ve written : ) but even if you don’t

wendy@wendykianakelly.com