Choice #4 - Week 15

Myself as a Writer

I was little when I fell in love with writing.  Well actually at that point, I fell in love with reading and stories.  It took a little longer for me to realize that I wanted to write these stories for myself.  It was in these days that I hid under my blankets on my top bunk, hiding the light of the flashlight from my big sister below.  I explored Treasure Island, 20,000 leagues under the sea, and I read my first Dickens.  Honestly, Oliver Twist didn’t come to bed with me; I think I was too little to appreciate the talent of Dickens at the time.  

When I was twelve I wrote my first book, though I stopped halfway through.  It was a historic novel in the form of a diary – a formula I copied from my favorite book of the time.  It was terrible, but it was a step.

When I was thirteen, I broke my elbow sledding.  Stuck inside during the next few weeks, my dad brought me to a book store to find something to keep me occupied.  I was overwhelmed by the magnitude of choices, so my father suggested his favorite book from when he was a kid – A Journey to the Centre of the Earth.  That paperback became my best friend for the next few weeks, and I still have it on my shelf.  I doubt I’ll ever replace it with a nicer hardcover version – that old paperback means too much to me.  It cemented my desire to be a writer.

When I was fifteen I decided that being a writer was a terrible idea.  What was I thinking?? What would I go to college for?  English?  Literature?  What could I hope to do with my life?  I’d heard of too many struggling writers, and too many people said that writing wasn't a real job.  It made me bitter.  So I decided to become a dental hygienist.  

After a while, I gave that idea up.  I hate teeth, and dentists.

Last year I wrote two novels and thirty short stories.  I had renewed my pledge to be a writer and I decided to get my practice in.

Why do I write?  People talk about writing as a way of processing things, and that’s true.  When things happen in my life that are really tough and hard to deal with, I turn to my pen (or laptop).  I write about my struggles, putting my characters through them, writing poetry to express and journal entries to untangle – it all helps.  But it’s more than that for me.  I have a friend who doesn’t care to ever be published because she uses writing purely for processing.  But for me, I crave a wider readership.  Someday, when I’m good enough, I want to be read.  I don’t crave love.  People can take me or leave me (actually, hate is a sort of compliment as well, because you’ve moved people to strong emotion – you’ve made them feel something).  But I don’t crave a fan club – I just want to be read.  I want to bring readers through the ups and downs of a good book like so many authors have done with me.  I want to have my voice out there and I want to make people think.

This class has been good for me, that much I know.  I feel like I’ve grown, at least a little.  I’ve never shared so much writing with anyone before, not even my family.  I’ve been afraid that I’m just not good enough yet, and I've been discouraged by the “helpful” critiques that some are apt to give.  You mentioned that I probably could not have written what I did for my week #2 prompts if I had actually written them during week #2.  I’m sure you’re right.  I was still playing it safe then, not moving outside of the bland, generic comfort-zone that for some reason I sometimes stick to.    

I’m afraid of what will happen after this semester is over.  After growing like I have, I really don’t want to stop.  I’ll probably continue on with my blog so that I can keep writing and hopefully keep learning.  But without the class aspect, I know it won’t be the same.  I have to find new ways of growing on my own– that’s part of life.  I am very grateful for this class though.  While some classes (and teachers) can crush your voice, this one only encouraged mine.  

I’ve looked back on me as a writer, I’ve touched on my present as a writer, but what about my future as a writer?  What is my future as a writer?  Do I even have one?  I don’t know.  I wish I could tell you.  In all honesty, I would like nothing better than to be published and read, but that seems like a pretty far-off dream.  I want to write as my full-time job.  But that’s so scary and different, plus nobody takes that seriously.  When adults who know better hear that I want to be a writer, they usually have one of a couple of responses.  One is to smile and say “Great!” ….pause….  “Great for a hobby!  What about your real job?”  I want to say that this is a real job, and I could make money at it if I got good enough!  But then that would be presumptuous.  As if I could really get that good.  Another response they give is to nod and give a disparaging look, then move on to talk about their son or daughter who is in school to be fireman, an engineer, a plumber.  Real jobs.  

But which would be scarier?  A tough road pursuing my dream, or a safe road full of things I hate?  Right now I have a part time job that suffices.  So as long as I can do this: as long as I can write during my evenings, during my free time, during my days off, and then work when I have to, I will.  Then perhaps, just maybe, I’ll grow into the kind of writer that can be published.  Someday.