I could tell the story of how I realized I wanted to be a writer in two ways. In the first, I’ve always known I wanted to be a writer. I remember in kindergarten, we had a “story bag” that a student got to take home every weekend. They’d create a story and then share it with the class. I remember being so excited about this, I got to take the “story bag” home twice. I can recall crafting my first story–about a mother dog and her puppies–and cutting the book to be in the shape of the mother dog. Probably not my best work, to be sure, but the drive was certainly there.
I can also recall in early grade school having to write a fable. “How the Parakeets Got Their Colors” was mine (if you’re curious, they flew into a fruit tree).
I remember the first story I wrote on my own, the tale of Goldenstar, a racehorse.
What we can take from these memories is that I either A) loved animals as a child, or B) enjoyed telling stories.
Actually, both or true. But you can probably guess which I’m focusing on.
In the fourth grade, I remember pouting that I didn’t want to read my assigned novel because “I prefered telling my own stories to myself instead.” I don’t actually remember what any of those stories were, but I think we can safely assume they had to do with animals.
When my fifth grade career fair rolled around, for a class assignment we had to create a poster featuring our desired career. I remember not really knowing what I wanted to do for a career, I guess I’d never really thought about it. So my teacher asked me what I liked, and I told her, telling stories. So I made my poster and in the middle of it, I wrote in large letters, “WRITER”.
My memories are far less specific as I get older, I suppose because I had more demanding academics, though I do recall being assigned a few creative projects and being terribly excited about them. In fact, my ninth grade English teacher asked me to help her try to get a creative writing class created (I don’t even know how she knew I liked creative writing). I also became the editor of my school’s literary magazine for two years and I went on to continue this in college.
Yet somehow, it never occurred to me that I might be able to make writing a career. It was a hobby, a pastime, something I did for fun. So I double majored, and one of my degrees was in creative writing, but the other was in something far more practical.
But my love of writing was ever-lurking in the back of my mind, and it wasn’t long after I graduated that I came upon another moment where I knew I wanted to be a writer. I moved to Europe, got a job (probably all in avoidance of that dreaded 9-5 job), and met one of the most influential women in my life: Buffy, Cazavampiros (yes, that’s Buffy the Vampire Slayer in Spanish).
Go ahead and judge me if you like, but Buffy is still one of the most important things in my life. Not the least of which is because she’s set my gold standard for feminism, but also because watching her show ignited in me another flash of passion. I can vividly recall the opening credits:
The Nerf Herder slammin’ soundtrack playing as images of my beloved Scoobies flashed by. Buffy swinging her stake, Willow, Xander, Giles as a couple vamps bit the dust. And then, as the anthem wound down, these words appeared: Created by Joss Whedon.
You see, one of the things that gave me pause about writing was that I didn’t know what I wanted to write. I liked everything! I didn’t know if I was a poet or a novelist. I didn’t know if I wanted to write or edit. All I really knew is that I loved stories. But then I saw that word: creator. Something about it just clicked in me. I knew that was what I wanted to do: I wanted to create.
I didn’t hop on a plane and fly to Hollywood, however. I just let my eyes shine as I thought about that word and continued with my daily life because, since I already thought writing was an impossible of enough career, writing for Hollywood was…….
So I went back to my regular life, and again, in my spare time, dreamt up my big stories. I bought notebooks and wrote them down. And then I went back to things as usual.
Due to the sinking Spanish economy and the difficulty getting Visas renewed, I found myself back in the U.S. and decided I wanted to go to grad school (again, probably because I wanted to avoid getting that dreaded “real” job.)
I got my Masters in English (though I took more creative writing classes than regular English ones), and then I graduated and it was time for me to get a real job. I frantically applied for every job I could because I could no longer avoid entering the workforce unless I wanted to get a PhD (and if there’s one thing I learned in grad school it’s that I didn’t want more of it).
So I got a job. A fine job. A very good enough job, for sure. I’m good at it, and, while it doesn’t pay as much as I like, I did get a degree in English, so this is what I expected. I have a nice desk. It’s in a nice office. I’ve got benefits and a 401 K (and I’m not even sure what that is!) I’ve basically got the American Dream. Go me!
But there’s one problem. It isn’t my dream. I don’t like it. I don’t want it. And now that I look back, I realize I never did.
So here’s the second way I tell this story, the part where I somehow never really realized that I wanted to be a writer despite all that stuff I just told you about the parakeets and the literary magazines and Joss Whedon. This is the part where, at 8 am, I roll into my office hating life because it’s February and it’s cold and it’s still dark outside because someone in society has apparently deemed it an appropriate hour to start the day. This is the part where I can no longer ignore that I’m not doing what I want to with my life. I don’t even like my life. And as I flicker on my computer and clutch my cup of hot tea, I promise to myself that this cannot be it. This is the part where I promise myself that things have got to change.
So here I am, still trying. I won’t pretend like I’ve got it all figured out, but if my story resonates with you in some way, maybe we can help each other figure it all out.
All My Best,