I sat on the bed. Opposite from him. The sun was rising low in the eastern sky, as the dust was dancing in its beams – welcoming in the new day. Insulated by his wall of books. His desk adorned with the tools of his affection. His days filled with the ritual of creation. Pen against paper. Scribing word after word after word. Sentences that became stories.

Eventually the pen was replaced by a typewriter, of course. But the devotion never wavered. You could see his imagination taking flight as he glanced outwards towards the yet unseen. The sound of the clickety-clack told me he was making magic. Even today, when I hear that melody I am taken right back to that room where I sat in awe of my dad’s creative genius. Simple moments, where he made extraordinary impressions on my ever-blossoming artistic soul.

I have often thought about how young I was when I knew. Knew that I wanted to create. Knew that I was a creator. Where did that discernment arise from? Was I born with it? Was it nourished as I watched my father write story after story, poem after poem? Was it because my parents taught me by example, to follow the path of my own heart? And as they stood in their own remarkable, they inspired me to be remarkable, too.

I knew then, and I still know now – I am a creator.