We find inspiration in different ways through different aha moments. My writing journey began through one of those moments inspired by scrapbooks.
It all started with a carry-on bag full of pictures created before digital photography became the norm. I had taken shots of varying times in my and my family’s life, especially of my children, from the toddler tender moments to the teenage trials. They remain for a long time in a pile of portable mess, pictures strewn everywhere in that carry-on bag.
For a short time, I hadn’t been a working mom. I stayed at home (prior to divorce) without much to do when the kids attended school. I commenced to cleaning out the closet, trying to find productivity in a different way, as most bored women do who have no identity outside of the home and who are tired of dishes and laundry. I noticed the carry-on and took a break.
I sat on the floor in my baby’s room and poured out the pictures. Little did I know that that one act all those years ago would eventually lead to this blog.
I didn’t know where to begin. I trusted my memory and started organizing the pictures through timespans represented through the places we’d lived. I started creating piles to get a sense of an organized life.
From there, I’d sparked a new hobby—scrapbooks—and developed a highly creative side. I take that back. Developed I think is the wrong word. I’d always carried a creative streak. I simply allowed that journey through the pictures to foster it.
As I cut and pasted in the scrapbook, tangibly, hands on with glue and scissors, I invented masterful picture books full of memories. I spent money on paper, trinkets, stickers, and went full-fledged crafty.
Weeks of performing this art, I analyzed the scrapbooks I’d created. I thought back to high school, to creative writing class, where we had created large picture books for students at a local elementary school. I remembered the look on a young girl’s face when I handed her the book I had created just for her. I realized, in that moment, that my scrapbooks weren’t a medium to cutely display pictures. I hadn’t created glorified photo albums.
I had written stories without ever using words.
Those pictures not only helped me kill time, but they also gave life to my purpose, the one that I’d always carried, yet had remained dormant.
That day defined what I wanted to do, what I know, deep down, I was always meant to do. Write.