My Mother Writes

When I was a kid, my sister was The Artist. She practiced ever since she could pick up a pencil, and even when she was young her drawings were wonderful, lifelike, and much sought after. I wanted to draw, too, but I felt like I was in her shadow and anything I did would be lesser in some degree. I didn't even practice that much, because anything that I drew (without anywhere near the amount of practice that my sister put in) looked silly.
My mother was an English major. She is The Writer. She has written thousands of pages of journal entries, stories, and lately several blogs. She doesn't publish books, tour the country, or write magazine articles that change the world. She writes about her life, she writes talks for church, she writes for herself.  She writes with passion, knowledge, and beauty. She takes her thoughts about something like a frog, and ties in something from her life, her religion, her family, and does it in such a flowing way that you don't even notice. Every talk she gives in church is amazing, a masterpiece in itself. I was an English major, too, because I wanted to write like her. I wanted to write amazing things that people couldn't put down, that they wanted to read again and again, that they wanted to have other people read, because what they read was so wonderful and uplifting that they couldn't help themselves. I've been writing privately for a while, short stories, and working on a children's book. Now I want to try and blog like my mother. I need to practice, practice, practice, because that's what gets you where you want to be. And I want to be like my mother. I want to be a Writer, too.