Hobbies, they have come and gone from my life over the years. Interests, needs, love of beautiful things, a creative and impulsive nature, have all at one time or another pushed me into various hobbies.
The hobby/habit of reading began early. From the first, “Look, look, look! Oh, look Dick!”that I mastered in first grade, free time means a book up against my nose. I read avidly, my appetite unsatiable. Two walls of book shelves line the family room in our present home. Still the books spill over the allotted space. Book stores seldom tempt me unless they are used book stores. I try to limit my visits to one or two a year.
The second hobby that possessed me was sewing. My mother sewed, for her children, for herself, for the grandchildren. I watched and learned and I sewed also. Baby clothes, doll clothes, my clothes, gifts, quilts, the fabric traveled mile after mile on my machine. I sewed avidly and my appetite for turning out beautiful quilts and gifts was unsatiable. My stash sits in bins on the heavy shelving of the store room. Baskets under the sewing table and sewing desk contain more. I have learned to avoid fabric stores.
There was the cake decorating phase. With nine children of our own, confirmations, graduations, birthdays and other festive occasions, it would cost less to make the celebration cakes myself. More than a dozen years later our youngest child has graduated from high school. I did cakes because I could, and because it was cheaper. On a separate shelf in the storeroom sit three boxes. They contain pans, and books, tips and dyes, decorations and molds. I am nearly ready to give them away. I have no problem walking past those aisles in any store.
Scrap booking entered my life when I borrowed my parents picture albums. I wanted to scan a cross section of the photos. I wanted to keep them on the my computer, a record of my parents and the places we had lived. The albums were in disarray. The bindings were broken, pictures slipped from their places, pages from their order. I began scrap booking them avidly. My collection of items from the scrap book stores grew. There is a three drawer dresser in the basement filled with punches, and stickers, and stamps. A small shelf contains stacks of paper. There is one album left to be done. When that is finished, perhaps I will be also.
Two years ago, while I still read, and sewed and while the albums for my parents were still under construction I embarked on a new endeavor. It wasn’t really something new, I had dabbled in it for years but had not gotten serious. But the bug bit. It bit me hard. Impulsively I jumped with it and into it. At least THIS hobby would cost me nothing, or rather cost my husband nothing. This hobby needed nothing but my time. I had paper and pencil and better yet a computer and a working knowledge of word processing. I had a dictionary and a spell checker on the computer. All that was required was that I begin.
So now I write. I write avidly, feverishly, agonizingly, and joyfully. It is inside of me, and I am privileged and compelled to write. My appetite for words is insatiable. The file drawer of my desk is half filled with handwritten pages. So far they do not spill over or out of their confined space. The memory on my computer is large. There is room for more, much more. So I write.
In two years I have written two novels. The words spilled in torrents, and sometimes only in dribbles. Occasionally my fingers would tremble in excitement as the words pulsed through them. At times I forced each letter while I yelled in frustration to an empty house. There is a third book clamoring in my head, and stories present themselves at odd moments. No matter how long my list of things to accomplish, I must also write. Every day something comes, must push itself out of my brain and onto a page.
This is my story, another hobby, here we go and here we go again.
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