When I was little – maybe 7 or 8 – I learned about poetry in school. Later, sitting at the counter in my Nunnie’s (grandmother) kitchen, I told her that I was going to write a poem about her. I don’t remember much about that poem. I know it was indeed about my Nunnie and that I wrote it very quickly. And I’m fairly certain I rhymed the words pink and think.  

But the big thing about this moment in my young life is that Nunnie took one look at that poem and declared that I was a writer. She thought it was truly an amazing feat of literary proportions. Think James Joyce meets Jane Austen.

Nunnie called my mom and my two aunts and informed my entire family that I was a writer. That was it. Based on this little poem, I had the talent of writing. So I always believed it too. After all, Nunnie said it was true, so it must be. In fact, this belief in my ability as a writer is the one and only thing in my life that I have never questioned. (Even during my darkest Debbie Downer-I just got rejected moments.)

Nunnie passed away on Christmas morning at the age of 97.

I’m at an interesting place. Obviously, I have a lot of feelings and memories and emotions swirling around right now. But in terms of writing, this crazy talent I apparently have because Nunnie said so, makes my path seem clearer than ever. Nunnie never got to see a published book with my name on the cover. I think I might always regret that.

So I am now moving forward with my writing. I have a finished manuscript and I am putting all of my effort into getting it published. Because Nunnie was right: I am a writer!