People always ask me if I write.
If I am a writer.
If I am a good writer.
If I like to write.
The answer to these questions varies based on the day.
My family has a fun series of inside jokes based on this.
“Do you play Scrabble at the dinner table every night?”
“Do you read the Dictionary while you go to the bathroom?”
“Is your grammar just so perfect?”
I assume this is because my mother, Anita, is a New York Times bestselling author. You may have heard of The Red Tent. In Boston, she’s more than just “the lady who wrote that”, though–she was a long-time columnist for the Boston Globe magazine, and a journalist for various outlets including the Boston Phoenix. What you don’t know is that my father, Jim, is an impressive writer as well. He’s spent most of his life writing press releases and doing media work for some impressive organizations, including the MBTA and the Cambridge Public School System.
But what you absolutely don’t know is that my grandfather was a beautiful writer. Maurice wrote about labor issues, philosophy, religion, etc. Mostly he wrote for himself or his family, but occasionally he would have something printed in a paper in Denver or his synagogue newsletter. He was a concise and beautiful writer, and he left behind for our family a book of stories and messages chronicling his life and love for us. What a gift.
So, do I write? Yes, I like to write. I am not a writer. Yet. But maybe I will be.
So with this blog, I will start to write. I will give voice to whatever silly things seem to come up that might be interesting to me, that might be worth writing about.
Here goes nothing…