Sometime around my 12th or 13th birthday I began dreaming of being a writer. That dream was prompted by my love of books. I was surrounded by them. There were stacks and stacks of books everywhere in our home. On bookshelves, in boxes. Literally everywhere: math textbooks (my parents were high school math teachers), yearbooks, Bibles, encyclopedias. My childhood home was a library.
Now, as I celebrate the publication of my 6th book, I reflect on the impact that books have had on my life. I remember sitting for hours with a Child Craft encyclopedia (volume 2, I believe) memorizing each poem enclosed.
I never saw a purple cow
I never hope to see one
But I can tell you anyhow
I’d rather see than be one
This and so many other simple little rhymes from that book still hold place in my mind. I read them over and over. Desperately blazing them into my memory. Now they and so many others dance around my head lighting imagination.
Somewhere, around the age of 14 I read Maya Angelou’s Phenomenal Woman for the first time. I was stunned! Amazed at the pride that washed over me. The confidence I felt gifted from a writer I would never know! I sat up a little higher, smiled a little brighter and couldn’t wait to turn into the woman of whom she spoke.
(If you’ve ever seen me speak at a writing conference, you’ve heard me recite this poem. It’s what I lead with,because it gives me strength. A strong assurance of my capacity.)
I knew then, at 14, that if Maya Angelou could make me feel that good by simply writing a few words on a page, then I, too, wanted to be a writer. I wanted and needed to pass on that same thrill to others. Thus, began my life of writing.
The responses I have received since publishing One Thousand Yellow Butterflies has been heartwarming, satisfying, glorious. I’ve had people tell me that they cried all weekend after reading it, or furiously marked pages in the book as not to forget any poems. Someone even told me her face was wet from tears after only reading the table of contents. Another reader told me she was so overwhelmed that she had to stop reading after page 5, then again after page 8, then again after page 12.
This volume of poetry, dedicated to the memory of my mother, was written to help heal my aching heart. It was the only way I was able to survive my grief. I am thankful that I am passing along this same type of healing to others. I am thankful.