It's my mother's fault that I'm a writer

and her encouragement lingers even now that she's gone

A pencil drawing I did for my mother, of the woods outside her house.

I lost my mother two years ago yesterday. Even though I said I was going to put grief behind me for 2023, the pain of that loss is still a bit raw. And I wonder if it will ever not be. Or if I even want it to ever not be.

At 48 years old, with 3 children and 4 grandchildren of my own, sometimes I’m surprised at how much I still feel like I need my mom. I need her stoic faith, her wisdom, her musical voice, her advice about marriage and life and mothering. Her hugs. Oh, how I miss her hugs.

I suppose I will never stop needing my mother.

Though my mother is no longer here, I am blessed to be able to draw from the reservoir that she filled for over 45 years. A reservoir that is full of so many things, some of them small, some of them big, ALL of them significant.

The most significant are her obvious and unabashed love for my dad, her faith in God, and how she taught me and my siblings to shoot for the stars. But what I want to talk about today is how she nurtured me in my creative pursuits, particularly writing.

I always loved writing, especially poetry, from a very young age. Mother indulged me, providing me with the supplies I needed to write and “publish” my very own books. When I won a poetry contest in middle school, she kept every scrap of memorabilia related to it.

When I was fifteen and suffering from my first heartbreak, my mother looked at me with sympathy and said, “Write about it.”

And I did. I filled my silly spiral notebooks with the sappy, lovesick poetry of a heartbroken teenager. They weren’t very good poems, but writing them was cathartic. My mother knew better than I did how much it would help. But it wasn’t just that she knew it would help. She knew that writing was as much a part of me as my hazel eyes and honey-brown hair.

I didn’t know at the time that writing would became my career. I hadn’t even considered it. I wonder if she did. I wonder if she saw all the writing I was doing and pictured me as a published poet or, even crazier, a novelist. I wouldn’t be surprised. We often dream bigger for our kids than we do for ourselves, I think.

Whether she imagined it or not, whether she hoped for it or not, whether she intentionally pushed me in that direction or not, my mother’s nurturing is a big part of why I am here today. My first published book is dedicated to her. But in a way, they ALL are.

Here’s to you, Momma. Thank you for believing in me.

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• I wrote a poem about my mother soon after she passed, which I read at her funeral, in case you’re interested: A Poem for Mom

• My daughter

  Julia McMullen
  has had some of her own poems published recently. Here’s one you may enjoy: Adam lights a cigarette and doubts God’s existence for the first time

• Not to be outdone, my other daughter,

  Samantha Coté
  , is also quite the writer. You may enjoy her recent post, Little goodnesses.

• I’ve recently discovered

  Weirdo Poetry
  , and recommend it for anyone with even a casual interest in poetry or creativity.

• One more thing: If you’re looking for bookish gifts for a child or child-at-heart, check out this gift guide over at

  Read, Discuss, Do
  !