My grandmother wanted me to be a writer. More accurately, she wanted me to just write, because she thought I had “gift” for it (her words, not mine. I’m not trying to boast). This is all fine as I actually do like writing. I tend not to because I always feel like I don’t have anything to say, nothing worth saying or am hyper-critical of anything I do manage to get down on paper. My grandmother passed away three weeks ago. This is why I’m writing.
In reality, the writer of the family was my grandmother. She published three novels and three children’s books on Amazon Kindle and had another three or four novels that were in various stages of editing/preparation for publishing. I’ve only read bits and pieces of these books. Occasionally, I would help her with syntax and phrasing of things but our writing styles were/are very different. My words tend to come out like my thought processes; sometimes more flowery and philosophical than others, and more often than not, a stream of fragmented phrases and thoughts at times only intelligible to myself. One thing we both have in common, run-on sentences. We both love run-on sentences!
I cannot express how terrible I feel never having read her books while she was alive. I’ve lost count of how many times she asked me to. I feel like I let her down. Logically, I know she understands. The subject matter didn’t interest me much. I’m not the voracious reader that she was and the books that I do read lean more towards thrillers, detective/mystery, and sci-fi/fantasy novels. The occasional book of poetry (here’s lookin’ at you Chuck Bukowski) smattered somewhere in-between. I have little to no affection for romance novels or books of the like, save for Jane Austen. (It’s here that I admit that I did read Fifty Shades of Gray, but only the first one, and only because I bent to peer pressure.)