I Used To Be A Writer.
For as long as I can remember, words have been a part of my life. They’re a part of everyone’s life, right? But to me, they are a become-a-Brownies-dropout-before-you-ever-make-it-to-Girl-Scouts-because-Writers-Club-meets-at-the-same-time-after-school kind of special.
From the time we start learning how letters work, we are warned to use our words wisely. Even when our usable vocabularies are as small as we are, grown-ups try to teach us that words are powerful enough to help us heal or cause wounds in other people. We’ve all used that phrase about sticks and stones when someone was being mean to us; but anyone who survived elementary school knows it isn’t true. Words can definitely hurt.
They also help us make friends and connect with others. Hi, can I play? or You like stuffed animals and coloring books too? Want to be best friends? are the conversations I recall from making my first friends in pre-school.
When I was growing up, I remember my sister and my mom were avid readers. My sister especially always had a book in her hand. I didn’t. Reading was frustrating for me, so I avoided it as often as I could when I was younger. My family read so much and so quickly that I always felt behind. [My dad was also a reader, but his pace wasn’t as intimidating since I inherited my dyslexia from him.]
I was a smart kid, but my sister could use zealous to accurately depict her enjoyment of something as a 9-year-old. When she would talk, I spent a lot of time asking for definitions and replacement words that I could find in my [much smaller] mental thesaurus. Looking back I’m grateful for all the times a less common word triggers a memory for me, but at the time it was incredibly frustrating.
My love of reading was something that grew as I did. [Since at least my sophomore year in college, it is weird if I’m not actively reading at least one book.] But, the appeal of writing to me predates my earliest memories. It was just my name, but I do remember the pride I took in being able to write it in cursive as a 5-year-old when taking my kindergarten test. And the rest, as they say, is history!
No, that’s not the whole story. But the summary is this: While the effort involved in getting better at reading was painful for me, the challenge of writing was the complete opposite.
Even though I wasn’t particularly good at writing as a kid, I still loved it. In fact, I remember failing an English paper in 6th grade. I wrote a fictional story about how a 5th grade class took a trip to Toronto to watch the Phantom of the Opera on stage – and it turned out the actor playing the phantom was actually killing the other actors when the scenes called for it. Too dark for an 11-year-old in 1999? My teacher certainly thought so. And, it was probably a little long.
By college, my writing had progressed from too long, but marginally creative to reasonably strong. I started journalism and business writing, which helped me better recognize the art of brevity over the superfluous. And, by the time I graduated in 2009, I was proud of the level my writing and editing skills had reached. It was during those four years that I first thought I might be able to create things people might actually want to read.
For the last decade, only the hope I had then has remained untarnished. I’ve spent the last 10 years letting my pencils collect dust; letting pages remain blank. I don’t think I’m completely rusty. Luckily, my job does involve some written communication, so I’ve had reason to practice occasionally. But, I want to be able to feel like I’m a writer again. And, what I know, is this: Hope doesn’t make you a writer. Actually putting words on a page, and maybe sharing it with others, does.
So, if I want to feel like a writer again, it’s time to start writing.
And hopefully I still remember that failing at something is only really failing if it makes you stop trying.
