Wondering

Today I read on a blogg, that I follow,  that she had the ambition to be a writer since she was a young,  young girl. She had great storytellers around and she used to sit at their feet and listen. To stories,  poetry. That’s the context she grow up in and formed her writing life.
I try to campare my life with hers. My context as young and I find it very different. I come from a silent family. Yes, we spoke, but not much storytelling.  Book reading to some extent. My mother read me childrens books (dont remember wich though) and I have a strong memory of goodnight singing. I also remember looking in “One Thousand and One Nights” with great interrest. The pictures if decapitated heads and barebreasted woman. But.  My grandparents I remember as silent. My parents not quite as silent. Me growing up as number three, playing a lot by myself, practicing solitude. Where does my need for writingcome from? Why do I love the words? And why does it come to me late in life? Im glad for it,  but I wonder from where the need and ambition comes from. There is also a need to share my written words with others, though I consider myself,  and is beeing considered as a shy person.  Where does it come from?

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