The Story I Was Always Writing

I’ve been writing stories since the first grade. The kind with colorful stick‑figure characters drawn in the picture box at the top of the page. The bottom half had three lines, two solid ones separated by a dotted one, where we practiced our handwriting and our storytelling at the same time. Do you remember?

More than anything, I remember my teacher’s praise and encouragement. And all these years later, she still remembers how impressed she was by my writing. Throughout elementary school, several more teachers recognized and nurtured my love of both drawing and writing. I attended the Young Writer's Conference and entered (and won!) several art and writing contests. When I won the Mothers Against Drunk Driving (MADD) writing contest, I got to go to the Capitol and meet the governor, which felt like the biggest thing that could ever happen to a girl from small town Iowa.

Somewhere in all of that, the dream took root: I wanted to be an author and illustrator. Creativity ran through my whole family. My dad used to doodle on the walls of his mechanic shop, little sketches I looked forward to when I visited, and he’d draw on napkins at restaurants while we waited for our food. Art was always part of my world, but I learned to see myself as a writer long before I saw myself as an artist.

In college, I took creative writing classes, carrying my childhood dream a little further. Writing still felt like the creative place I could safely claim. But when my first daughter was born, I picked up a paintbrush and covered her nursery wall with a mural, creating a whole little world just for her. People were surprised when they saw it because I didn’t really talk about my art back then. I loved making it, but somewhere along the way, I had convinced myself I was an imposter, someone who could create art, but not quite someone who could call herself an artist.

We were a young family just starting out, so when we couldn’t afford to buy gifts, I made them instead. Eventually, my art began to find its way into the hands of more people, and from there, word started to spread. I set up a small table at our local farmer’s market a few times and posted photos on a Facebook page, which led to some commissioned murals and projects. Back then, I called my little side hobby "Conversation Pieces," because I’ve always believed art is connective, something that sparks a memory, a feeling, or a story.

Through marriage and motherhood, my time and attention shifted, and art became something I did when I had the time, rather than something I made time for. But I kept writing. Quietly. Consistently. I filled journals and computer files with the different seasons of my life, the joy, the heartbreak, the healing, the humor. Things no one else ever saw. But I never completely let go of that childhood dream of becoming a writer and illustrator.

Looking back, all those different parts of my life were beginning to unlock something new. I just didn't know what was opening up.