When I started writing, I had no idea I was meant to take up the pen. This sounds contradictory, but it is the truth. As I began scratching out those first stories, I didn’t yet understand the compulsion, craving, or absolute joy I would come to feel when I saw my words on paper.

Isn’t it funny that all those years I worked in the book and publishing world, it never occurred to me that I could or should write?

Then, the stories began to flow from me—memories and inside jokes that I wanted tucked close to my heart. For the good times, it meant I could keep those times alive and well. For everything else, it meant I could write it out and begin to heal myself.

I think that sort of obsession for preserving how things used to be came from watching my grandmother lose more and more of her mind after my dad died. I was haunted by the idea of forgetting people, places, and things the way she had.

And then the poetry started pouring forth. And where that came from, I’m still not sure. For me, it’s a truer look at my world. It has become a sacred space where I can examine my emotions and history in a healthy way. 

To do this thing that I love is a gift I never knew I needed. For as long as I am able, I will continue to hone the work, challenge myself to push beyond the boundaries, and hope that others might also find freedom in my words. 

-AmyLee

Ideas have morphed as I’ve aged. Words have changed me, and I love them for changing me.