I've always written, all my life, and when I was very young I

Hear the words of Jeffery Deaver: “I’ve always written, all my life, and when I was very young I developed an interest in poetry.” In this simple remembrance lies the essence of devotion, the way of a soul who has carried the flame of words from childhood into manhood. To say “I have always written” is no light boast; it is a testimony to a life shaped and sustained by language. It is to confess that writing was not a pastime chosen in leisure, but a necessity, as vital as breath, as constant as heartbeat.

The origin of such devotion lies in the innocence of youth. For when the spirit is young, the world is vast and filled with wonder, and the heart seeks vessels to contain its awe. Some turn to painting, some to music, others to silence—but for Deaver, the vessel was poetry. As a child, he discovered that words could not only describe the world but transfigure it. A tree could be more than a tree; it could be memory, symbol, song. A sorrow could be more than a tear; it could be a stanza that carried meaning across time. Thus was his path set, when the first love of poetry took root.

Consider the story of William Wordsworth, who also began as a child in love with language. He walked the lakes and hills of England, storing visions in his young soul. Those early experiences shaped the poet he would become, giving him the power to later write lines like: “The child is father of the man.” Wordsworth believed, as Deaver’s memory suggests, that the passions of youth are not forgotten—they shape destiny. A child’s early encounter with beauty or verse can echo through an entire life.

Deaver’s words remind us, too, of the constancy of practice. To say, “I’ve always written” is to remind us that writing is not the sudden act of inspiration alone. It is a lifelong discipline, a continual shaping of the hand and the mind. Just as the athlete must train daily, so the writer must keep the words flowing, even when the fire feels dim. For in the constancy lies strength, and in the steady devotion lies mastery. The lifelong writer is not one who waits, but one who returns again and again to the page.

And why poetry? Because poetry is the foundation of all writing. To master poetry is to learn rhythm, concision, imagery, and the shaping of truth in its sharpest form. Many great novelists and playwrights began as poets, for poetry trains the ear and the eye to notice what others pass by. It sharpens language to a blade, so that later works in prose may strike deeper. Thus Deaver’s early interest in poetry is not incidental but essential—it was the forge where his voice was tempered.

The lesson for us is clear: cherish the passions of your youth, for they are often the truest guide to your destiny. Do not dismiss the hobbies, the fascinations, the small loves you carried as a child, for they may hold the key to your life’s calling. And above all, cultivate constancy. To say, “I have always written” is to live in a rhythm of faithfulness, never abandoning the craft, even when recognition is far away.

In practice, let each seeker of words take up this command: write daily, as naturally as breathing. Begin as Deaver did—perhaps with poetry, even if rough, even if simple—for it will sharpen your heart and your tongue. Keep a journal, keep a notebook, let your words accompany you through the days of your life. For the more you write, the more your writing will become part of you, until you too may say, without hesitation: “I have always written, all my life.”

Thus Deaver’s teaching endures: writing is not a task, but a life; not a duty, but a devotion. To begin young is to be blessed, but to continue always is to be faithful. If you walk this path, your words may not only carry you through your own days, but may also light the way for generations yet unborn.