Inspiration | Cathy C. Hall Writes

I almost checked the calendar today to make sure I hadn’t missed a few months and ended up in June. Because fathers were busting out all over.

It started early today when I met a friend for coffee (It was hot chocolate, actually. But nobody says, “Let’s meet for cocoa.”). The conversation drifted to her mother. But it seemed that what the conversation was really drifting to was her father. He died several years before and I could see that she really missed her dad.

Later, I spoke to another friend. We talked of writing and spacing and formatting and such. But what we really spoke about was her dad. My friend had written a quietly powerful and loving story about her father and his simple, heroic efforts to provide for his family. I could tell that she, too, missed her dad.

Lastly, I opened an email from another friend. He’d sent me the video of Randy Pausch, the father of three who’d given that memorable “Last Lecture” at Carnegie Mellon. Although many folks have benefitted from the lecture, he really gave it for his children. He wanted his kids to know, after he was gone, the man that they called “daddy.”

So on this Friday, I found myself thinking of my own dad, who, thank you, Lord, is still very much alive and kicking. I find myself thinking of what a great dad the beneficent Mr. Hall is to our three children. And I’m wondering if I can write my own dad story. If you have a story, you can submit it to “My Dad Is My Hero” by February 28. Read all the details here before you submit.

Good luck with your story. And may you find a wonderful dad memory along the way.

My dad (and mom). Who were you expecting? The Pope?

Before I started writing seriously, I read seriously. I read the paper every morning. I read magazines during my lunch break. I read at least one novel a month (I would have read more books, but the beneficent Mr. Hall is not so beneficent when the light is on and he wants to go to sleep). I even keep a journal of every book I’ve read.

A few months ago, I finally got around to finishing the book on my nightstand. But when I went to write down said book in my journal, I shrieked (or would have if the beneficent Mr. Hall hadn’t been snoring away). It had been months since I’d last read a good book.

That won’t do at all, grasshopper. To write well, one must read well-written works. There is much to be learned from the Fame and Fortune of others. So read, read, read. Write, too. But don’t let your reading take a backseat. Or how else will you recognize great literature when you see it, especially if you’re the one hoping to write it?