Prologue
Or, I’m a Writer Now
I’ve decided I want to be a writer.
There. I said it.
The reality is that I’ve been writing ever since I could. Not with any serious ambition, mind you, and aside from schoolwork, only rarely have I allowed anyone to read what I’ve written. But in every phase of my life, I can look back and see where the impulse to write would arise.
When I was very little and couldn’t spell yet, I would fill pages with long chains of loop-de-loops that were meant be epic masterpieces that only I could read.
In elementary school there were volunteers who would “publish” the stories we wrote by typing them up, sewing the pages together, and gluing on a cover made from the pages of wallpaper sample books. During this season of my life I was a prolific writer. I must have published dozens of books. I remember one in particular I wrote about a distant family member I had never met, but with whom I had already decided I would be very close. I wrote in great detail and with vivid illustration about all the places we were going to go together and all the things that we would do there. I still have not met this person.
In middle school I remember writing a novel in my spare time about a group of twelve year olds running away from home. It was a very long, heavily romanticized fantasy of my understanding of independence and adventure. The kids in my story always had everything they needed, they never ran into any predators (animal or human), and they always seemed to find the help they needed before they even looked for it. Also, I’m pretty sure one of the characters was meant to be a thinly veiled version of Taylor Hanson. I remember giving it to my Language Arts teacher to read, and she faithfully took each installment from me and would return it marked up with encouraging notes written in pink felt tip pen. As I saw it, I was going to be the next Francine Pascal of Sweet Valley fame.
My senior year in high school I took a combination English and History class called Struggle for Meaning, and at the start of every class the teachers gave us a short writing prompt. One morning we had to write about a childhood memory, and I wrote a short story about a lonely sailor lost on the stormy seas based on an imaginary game I used to play on the back porch with my little sister. Mrs. MacArthur raved about the story, and I was really proud of it. I took the page home and filed it away. I wonder if it’s still kicking around my parents’ house somewhere.
I spent college writing term papers for my many theater courses. And awful poems en español for Spanish class.
After college, the hustle became very real as I tried to survive as a twenty-something in New York City. Pretty much all the writing I did was grocery lists, cover letters in which I tried to brilliantly persuade the reader that my theater degree had more than adequately prepared me for the position to which I was applying… and texts to the guy I was into. We got married, and he brings home the bacon these days, so it worked out.There were plenty of times along the way that I was encouraged in my writing ability, but for some reason I never thought of “Writer” as a serious profession to pursue. Though somehow I found it reasonable to be a theater major, so I can’t really say I was thinking too deeply about it.
And now here I am, wife of an artist and a stay-at-home-mom of two little ones, starting a blog about how I am going to be a writer now.
As a (recovering) perfectionist, I tend to be very hesitant to put something I’ve done out into the world. I can always see a million ways it can be improved, and I think I have a fairly thin skin when it comes to mean-spirited criticism. Which may lead you to wonder why I would want to become a writer when so much rejection will surely be involved. (And why did I ever think acting was the career for me?)
I'm not sure what clicked in me, but I made a conscious decision that this would be the year that I both lean into things that I typically avoid, and to intentionally pursue the kind of life that I want. I want a life of joy and adventure and imagination and beauty, and I think writing ticks all of those boxes. At least for me. (You do you). But writing is also meant to be read, which means I have to share what I’ve written... which is definitely intimidating for me. I didn't even tell my husband I was writing a book until I was half done.
It's one thing to share something you've created with people you know will love you even if it's total shit. It's another thing entirely to open yourself to the criticism of the world at large. But this is the year for jumping in with both feet and arms wide. So. Welcome to this little experiment. I hope you enjoy the ride with me.