I’ve wanted to be a writer since I was in the eighth grade.
I remember the day I realized this was something I could do for the rest of my life. I wrote a piece, something to do with vampires (pre-Twilight), and showed it to my English teacher, who said she had only ever read a handful of students’ work that impressed her so much. I took that as my sign from God.
From that moment on, whenever anyone asked me what I wanted to do, I told them I wanted to be a writer.
When most kids were hanging up paintings they had done and posters they had collected around their rooms, I was hanging up poems I had written or copied, thoughts I wanted to remember, or just phrases. I built up a small collection of handwritten papers and pinned them to my wall as if they were art. And to me, they were.
I went to an arts school in the South and had the stereotypical life-changing experience where the eyes of my life had been opened to the point where anything could be inevitable.
I had never wandered outside my hometown. It was a big step for me, but I eventually learned that the world is a small place. I learned how to write there, not because I was taking classes, but because I was living life and taking risks with my craft. I had to, not just to impress my professors, but to keep up with everyone else. I read so many books and stared at my own text, willing a masterpiece to materialize. And while I might not have written a masterpiece, I did experience something else.
When you go to college, you have to take yourself seriously, especially if you come from where I came from. A college degree is not free money. Quickly, I adopted the mantra that I needed to get a shiny, fancy job in advertising or, God bless me, publishing. But I graduated during the pandemic, so none of that happened.
Once again, there I was, staring at a blank screen or a blank piece of paper, willing a miracle to come forth from my subconscious and be something great. But that didn’t happen either. Or at least, if it did, no one has seen it yet. And in all that time, I’ve told people that I wanted to be many things, and that is true.
I got a boyfriend. We got an apartment. I switched jobs, started a business, we got a dog, and we had a baby. But one thing has never changed. I’ve always wanted to be a writer.
I’ve never truly given up on writing. I love to talk about it. I love to read it. I love to do it.
Writing has been as constant for me as the wind. It comes and goes. Sometimes it’s strong. Sometimes I have to make my own. But I always know it’s there. I feel it all the time.
So I’m a mom who likes to write, and in another of countless efforts to satisfy my nature, I will keep writing. And when I’m not writing fiction or short stories, I will continue this blog and discuss my approach to writing and the pieces that interest me. I will discuss my writing style, any influences, or techniques I pick up during my reading.
In the meantime, naptime is almost over, and I need to make some edits.
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