The 12 Posts of Christmas, Day 8: The Write Gift

Inside: “I have to cut back on gifts this year,” my aunt Pat announced one Christmas when I was a teen. Her present to me? The write gift. 

The Write Gift

“I have to cut back on gifts this year,” my aunt Pat announced one Christmas when I was barely into my teens.

Mom and her sisters and brother gathered every Christmas at Granny and Grandpa’s, families in tow, to celebrate the day with food, good conversation, and, of course, lots and lots of presents. Each family brought gifts for all the kids and adults, which made for no extra room under the tree. It was an expensive undertaking, to be sure, but no one wanted to resort to picking names out of a hat. That just didn’t fit Mom’s family. So when Pat, who was known for being a very direct person, made her announcement, I wasn’t sure what to expect.

When the big day arrived, Pat mentioned she’d bought many of the gifts from a flea market, and, as it turned out, most of those purchases were books. I unwrapped mine to discover an old Writer’s Digest market guide. Another book accompanied this, I’m almost positive, yet I don’t remember what it was. My attention was strictly focused on the writer’s book.

The book itself was worn, and over a decade old (they come out with those yearly, you know), yet the pages inside its cover held something magical for me. Authors discussed their experiences writing. Magazine listings of what each publication was looking to buy, from short stories to articles to essays and fillers–and so much more–filled the edition! I started to dream of things I could write, places I could send my work. The thoughts raced through my mind faster than I could fully take them in. It was all so exciting, this world of authors and writing!

The strange part is, I never really talked about writing–with anyone. I’d have stories in my head, but I never mentioned it. I wasn’t even the bookish type. I loved stories, sure, but I indulged that passion by watching lots of television.

But I was good at writing. I’d often have my papers read in class, and I could write my way around an essay question to make it look like I knew the answer, even when I didn’t.

But all these things weren’t widely known about me. So how did my aunt Pat know?

Thinking back, I remember riding alone in the car with her once for twenty or so minutes between my house and hers. We talked about how we both loved fall, and she mentioned books she’d read and liked. Briefly the subject turned to writing, and she told me she liked to write, but I don’t recall what I said. I only remember how she treated me as though I was getting older, growing up, talking to me like an adult.

I’m not sure how Pat knew to buy me that gift. Maybe along that drive I admitted I liked writing, too. Or maybe she just had a hunch. But that book started me down a path. I began to dream of writing–and being a writer.

And that’s one gift I will never forget.