The other day, during an interview, I was asked why I write.

As a matter of fact, I often ask myself that very question. Instead of writing, had I used those hours peddling down the street selling popsicles from a cart, I would have made more money and gotten out more.

As a child, I had aspirations of becoming a ballet dancer or piano player; but my single, working mother couldn’t afford lessons. I got books from the library and tried to teach myself Elevé and basic piano chords, but the other kids had recitals and pictures of themselves wearing plumes, and I eventually gave up.

In middle school, we were given an assignment to write a story. I can’t remember what mine was about, but I do remember that when I read it to the class, they laughed and clapped at the end. From then on, when there was a writing assignment, the class would chant, “Barbara! Read yours first! Read yours first!”.

Mom worked night and day to make ends meet, but we were poor. I don’t want to sound wah wah, but I had no toys. None. But I had paste, paper, crayons, poster paints, pencils, whatever I could ferret in the woods near our house, loneliness, and my own fertile imagination.

I wrote puppet shows and made puppets out of old socks, thread, and buttons. I turned an old tool shed in the backyard into a stage, made tickets, and popped popcorn. If a kid didn’t have money for a ticket, I would take a toy in trade. I had money in my pocket, bagged a couple of nappy old stuffed animals, and all the neighbor kids wanted to be my friends.

The words the puppets delivered were mine. Flying friends came from my imagination to take me away from my troubles, and they had powers. I realized that they could make OTHERS happy, too. More valuable to me than the pennies and toys the neighbor kids gave up in trade, I realize now, was the joy my words brought them.

That is my reward. That’s why I write.

Love,

Barbara Barett