I get asked a lot where I learned to write. This is an easily answered question: my mother, though she may deny it, encouraged the creativity of my writing. My skills were then honed by English teachers who made a lasting mark on my life.

However, if you ask me why I write or what, specifically, made me fall in love with writing, the answer is a bit different.

I enjoy The Great Gatsby, yet Fitzgerald doesn't really inspire me.

The Harry Potter series will always have a special place in my heart, but J.K. Rowling didn’t make me fall for the written word.

And, yes, I do indeed love the Lord of the Rings series, yet even Tolkien didn’t make me love writing.

No, the man responsible for that has no fame, except in the eyes of select members of his community.

See, I didn’t fall in love with writing because some great, celebrated writer influenced me. I fell in love with writing because my grandfather penned simple, yet eloquent, birthday cards to me and, in doing so, left me with a piece of him that I will hold dear for my entire life.

The birthday cards that I saved from him always begin this way: "Dear Lovey #1..."

In reading his words, I get to relive the time I got to spend with my Pa.

I go back to the tradition of visiting him as a way of celebrating his birthday that falls the day before mine, October 26th.

I go back to sitting beside my Pa and his dog, Opie, surveying the bird field that he so laboriously kept.

I can hear his slow, steady breathing, interrupted only by his cracking sunflower seeds, as he sat in his chair while I drifted off to sleep on his couch. This usually happened when I was too sick to go to school. That man and my Gran were saints for taking care of their young, sometimes viral, granddaughter.

I can smell the indescribable scent of his v-neck t-shirts. The English language fails often, and it fails yet again to produce the words that can name that scent.

I go back to running behind my Pa, Levi Garret chewing tobacco in his back pocket, as he walked to the bird dog kennels that sat in his field.

My Pa was a backwoods intellect who lived a simple life. He was not a college educated man, yet he was a genius all the same. He was a man whose skills involved fishing, hunting, keeping a dove field, and training dogs.

Pa was both an amazing artist and an articulate writer. He had a strong, founded, impacting faith in God. He was, ultimately, the head of our entire family.

My love for words is founded on the memory of a man who never forgot a birthday or big accomplishment, as he used these opportunities as a chance to convey what was in his heart.

This is, ultimately, my intention when I write.

I now read the cards he wrote me and realize this: the best writing comes out of love. He taught me that writing is worthwhile because words leave a lasting impression that spans far past our time on this earth.

My Pa’s writing will never win an award or be on a big stage. However, they are in my heart, and there they will stay for the rest of my life. And I will do all I can to make sure that his words, and, more importantly, his heart show their influence in all that I write.