Awen

There’s a running joke that if someone studies abroad, they will then work it into every conversation they have from that moment on.

I wanted the title of my first post on this site to make it clear that I studied abroad and am therefore incredibly cultured and mature, so I chose a fancy foreign word as the title.

Not really. No, the real reason that I chose this word is because of its meaning. “Awen” is the Welsh word for “inspiration,” more specifically, poetic inspiration. I did happen to study abroad in Wales, which is why I know the word, but it’s one of maybe five Welsh words I picked up along the way (did you know that the Welsh colloquial term for microwave is popty ping?) so I can’t quite claim to be cultured or mature.

Awen happens to be the name I chose for the setting of the story I am currently writing, but again, that’s not why I chose this word. What I really want to write about in this blog post is my “awen,” my inspiration for writing.

Here’s the thing: writer’s inspirations will change over time. Muses come and go. Motivation comes and goes. Ask any good author, and they will tell you that inspiration isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be. Discipline, now that’s where it’s at.

Those authors haven’t met my stepdaughters.

My stepdaughters are better for my writing habits than the most rigorous writing schedule.

My inspiration and motivation was pure at the beginning: I loved telling stories. My first “book,” which my father helped me type and illustrate on the computer was called “The Llama and the Rat.” It was a poorly illustrated fable about relationships and the trials that friends go through when they can’t agree on what to eat for dinner or play or whatever I thought was a big deal at age five.

From there, I filled notebooks with stories and beginnings of novels. I was an avid reader, and good books made me want to write more. In high school, I discovered the guitar and angsty poetry. I wrote my first full novel for my senior year creative writing class, a teen vampire romance that is stored safely on my old computer and will never see the light of day. Like a good vampire.

In college, I discovered short stories. They were easier to finish, and it was still easy to find time to write; I was an English major, and my professors even gave me credit for writing. I spent my first post-college year substitute teaching and running a study hall for a non-profit, giving me ample time to continue writing. I even managed to get one short story published in an anthology from a now-defunct British publishing company.

But then real adulthood kicked in, and suddenly all the inspiration in the world couldn’t make time for writing. Occasionally, in a fit of frustration or rage, I would write a thinly-veiled science fiction story about how terrible my place of work was, but for the most part, the writing part of me faded away.

Enter these two*:

Never have I had such simultaneous encouragers and slave drivers.

When I finished my first real manuscript (just like middle school boyfriends, high school vampire novels don’t count), I read it to my stepdaughters, and they laughed. A lot. They actually liked it. So, I wanted to write something else for them. We, as a family, inspired by a street sign we pass weekly, came up with an idea for a fantasy story about a set of twins and their stepmother (sound familiar?), and suddenly I was writing again.

And I can’t stop. Not because I have the time or the intrinsic motivation. No, it’s because those twin tyrants won’t stop asking me what happens next.

So, here’s to my two inspirations: all my books will be dedicated to you.

Did I mention that I studied abroad?

*This picture is not of their faces because I don’t want my kids to grow up with their entire lives documented online. They are the cutest and prettiest and smartest girls; you’ll just have to trust me. Even if one of them seems to fart fireworks.

Originally published on October 9, 2019.