March Slice of Life Story Challenge
hosted at the Two Writing Teachers
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For as long as I can remember I have wanted to be a writer…a teller of great stories. I wanted to write things that others would be in awe of, want to read again and again.
But there was a problem. I thought to be a writer, a storyteller you had to have life experiences worthy of writing about, worthy of others to read. And to me, I have had no such experiences.
My grandpa was a great storyteller. I can remember as a child and adult listening to the stories of his life. He was born in 1910 so he had seen his share of new inventions, heartache, devastation, love, growth and experiences to fill a library. But it was his stories of his life on the farm that held me in rapture.
He told about his teams of horses used to plow the fields, Maude and Bell were two of his favorites. He welded stories of his youth and farming life like he worked his farm full of pride and hope.
My mother too has always been a great storyteller. She too had stories of life as a child on their Kansas farm. As a child I yearned to hear over and over of how her pony Candy would run under a tree, just to knock her or her sister off of her back. Or how her dad sold that same pony when she was older. She talks of childhood that many can only dream about.
My brothers also have this same knack for storytelling, and writing. My oldest has written speeches that can bring a room to tears in one breath and rolling with laughter in the next. And the other brother weaves a story from the tiniest of moments and turns them into the funniest tale you have ever heard.
They are all storytellers. They are what I dream of being some day.