My mother was an avid reader. She lived to be eighty-nine, and despite suffering from macular degeneration, she still managed to read daily. Towards the end of her life, her mobility was limited. Because she wasn’t comfortable using the internet, she purchased most of her books at the Ralphs Grocery a mile from her townhouse. She preferred mystery romance by Nora Roberts, Janet Evanovich, and Julie Garwood. But the truth is, she was game to read anything: Thrillers. YA. Memoirs. Romance. She wasn’t picky. After she retired from teaching, there were days when she read from morning to night.

 I spent a lot of time with her, especially during her later years. Three days a week, to be exact. We talked about everything, including politics, films, her grandchildren, recipes, my life, and hers. But oddly, I never asked her if she ever considered writing a novel. Looking back, it seems strange that I never broached this subject with her. She clearly loved books, perhaps even more than I do.

That said, I can only theorize as to why she never wrote a book. My gut tells me that the time she lived had something to do with it. My mother came of age during the 1950s when most women were teachers, nurses, or secretaries. It probably never occurred to her that she could make a living as a novelist. Not that many writers make a living wage now. But I digress. And I think putting pen to paper and writing her truth likely didn’t enter her mind because she was raised in a family where girls only spoke when spoken to, and they were quiet, polite, and kept busy cooking, canning vegetables, and cleaning. My mother married at the age of twenty-four, and my sister and I kept her busy, as did being married to my father, who was a college professor. She actively supported his career by entertaining his colleagues and attending events.

But there were times in my life when my kids were little, when I barely had a moment to shower, and I still wrote. This tells me that she didn’t need writing like I did. Because for me, writing often feels like breathing, and there have been seasons when I’ve needed it to survive. It makes me think that she got joy from something else, like teaching or baking. My mother made a mean apple pie. Or maybe she just didn’t have that itch. You know the one that wakes you up in the middle of the night and forces you out of bed, so you can scribble on a Talbots catalogue with your eyeliner, because you just have to get that idea onto the page

If you’ve read my other posts, you know that I recently joined a book club. And let me tell you that the librarian who runs the event and most of the attendees are just as passionate about books as my mother. And they’re not alone. Twenty-seven percent of Americans consider themselves avid readers. But if they love books so much, why don’t they write them?

Well, I love chocolate, and I don’t have any desire to make candy. I love wearing maxi dresses, but I have no desire to design or sew a dress. I love architecture, but I never want to build a house. I love flowers, but I don’t want to plant a garden. But for whatever reason, something inside me makes me want to write.

Why does knowing this matter? Because I’m pretty sure that writing is my purpose. It’s what I was meant to do. Was it my mother’s purpose? I don’t think so. I think her purpose was teaching, mothering, grandmothering, and, of course, inspiring me. What is your purpose? Are you an avid reader who also loves to write? Why do you think people choose to act and become writers and not just readers? Thanks for reading!