Writing About"Writing" As The Craft..."

Writing as your craft is our given topic today by Jeff Goins. It can go from why, how and when you write and everything else in between.
I'm the 4th child of 9 siblings, of the same parents. If I have a chance to do over some things in my life--this is not one of them that I wish it could be reconstructed or revised. Growing up in a big, closely-knitted family with a good patriarch and a good matriarch that taught us golden nuggets to live by and a legacy of a strong foundation of responsibilities, accountabilities as well as boundaries is noteworthy--priceless. I can tell you with so much joy in my heart that I treasure the teachings I got from my mom & dad. And nothing or nobody, not even our ever-changing global views; how distorted and appealing they are can't touch my moral integrity without repentance. 
But anyways, when I was about 7 or 8 years old, I stumbled on my dad's diary on all of us, his 9 children. He compiled his writings in a book. My dad was very creative, more like a very resourceful man as he had proven that quality as a good father and a sole breadwinner till his last breath. I didn't think it was wrong for me to read because it wasn't locked. As if it was meant for me to read it. I didn't have any qualms doing it. By the way, I just read what was mine. His narrative about me started when I was born up to 3 years old. I didn't bother peeking on what he wrote about the rest of my siblings. I just wanted to read mine. From there on, I knew why I felt closer to him than my mom. But that mutual bond and affection changed when I became a mother myself. For I love my mother more now than ever.
I believe that reading my dad's manuscript about me was the crux of the fabric of my writing gift.
I just never told him that I read his diary of me and that he was my first "muse" in my

writing, the inspiration that lights up even when he's no longer here. I've written here and there; mostly in letters, greeting cards, journals, commentaries, and short editorials. What sealed my longing to write was when one afternoon outside the Arts & Sciences building, one of my English professors entreated me to the side and told me that he sees great potential in me in the field of Creative Arts. And he was even willing to help me be an apprentice in a nearby radio station. I did comply for the sake of curiosity, just once. I did a piece of 3-minute public service information. 

It was an incredible feeling to read on the air. However, it wasn't for me. I wasn't going to do something that would alter my parents' expectations of me to become an educator, a teacher like my aunt and my grandpa which I am now... I never pondered on suppositions like what could have been if I had taken that route? People have told me that I made them cry or shed a tear when I wrote to them.
I kind of believe that or had an inkling that I love words. I read them, I listen to them, I sing them, I dream of them and I still continue to chase them...

Writing words that declare who I am is the great love I never found in the earthly relationships.
It continues to elude me but nevertheless, words do come by necessity, and there's no telling how 
your words metamorph you by God's design.
Thank You for Reading...
God Bless