My Writing Journey
“A writer is anyone who writes anything. Everyone in this class is a writer.” This is what I tell my students, year after year. However, I still have a definition in my head that equates being a writer with being an author, someone who writes for a wide audience and gets published. According to the stubborn definition in my head that still hangs on even though I know better, I have trouble calling myself a writer; but according to the definition I give my students, of course I am a writer. When I write lesson plans, or journal, or write for my blog, or write a message or email, or work on a piece of fiction, or write a note to myself as a reminder, or even as I compose this essay for this class, I am a writer. No matter which of these writing activities I engage in, no matter how long they are or how many people will read them, I am completing a transaction of ideas with somebody or something.
Taking into account the definition that resides in my head, I have desired to be a writer since third grade, when I walked into my school’s career day with an armful of empty papers and Poppleton Pig books and boldly declared that I would be an author. I believe that was the year I also wrote a Poppleton Pig-esque fiction about four animal friends who go on a camping trip. Surprisingly, and even though it was turned in about a week past the due date, my teacher loved it. I remember getting a lot of praise and watching the adults around me get excited about it, even standing by while my parents typed the story up on our computer. I couldn’t tell you what happened after that, but I think it sparked an idea in me that, hey, I might actually be good at this writing thing.
Thinking back to the past, when I was small, my mother wrote journals and diaries on occasion. My father struggled with reading, so although I would see him reading books like Band of Brothers and devotionals, I can’t recall him writing. I’m not sure that writing was a big focus in my immediate family. My biggest writing influence was my grandfather, an introvert like me who loved to write memoirs and make up stories. I still remember a story he would tell me about a squirrel who lived in his neighborhood who could grow into a giant squirrel and go on rampages. I can vividly recall staring up at him as he talked, as we sat together on a bench surrounded by my Nana’s flowers and fallen pine needles. I can remember the feelings of terror and delight that thrilled my heart – terror at the image of a giant rampaging squirrel who could appear on the scene at any second, and delight at this shared moment, this shared story that belonged to the two of us. I would even take my turn to add on to the story or tell my own. I think my grandfather really helped my imagination grow and soar, fueled by all the books that I loved reading, and was an example to me of somebody who could dwell in the world of introspection and imagination, and then put those inner thoughts to paper. He also taught me that stories were things that could be shared, that could bind people together and bring them closer.
A writer is anyone who writes.
As I moved into middle school, I struggled with school writing, but thrived on fiction and fantasy writing. Once again fueled by the books I was reading and shows I was watching, I wrote the beginnings of novels about anthropomorphic rodents à la Redwall, about four girls who suddenly gained powers based on dragons and the four elements à la Avatar: the Last Airbender and W.I.T.C.H., and about a trio of superhero friends who save the world while also being high school students à al an amalgamation of Greek mythology, my and my sister’s imaginations, Karate Kid, and Danny Phantom. I would sit for hours at a computer that my parents gave me, typing away on Word documents, looking out at the trees and sunset that I could see from the desk in my room, and running to ask my parents or siblings to read my work and tell me what they thought. I wrote journals as well, but more often than not I was composing some crazy fantasy story or fanfiction in my head or on random scraps of paper. Even my friends and I, when we got together, would create insane stories with one another, in comic form at recess and in film form during sleepovers – things involving apple-headed people being harassed by horses and “cereal killers” chasing people around with spoons. Like I said, “insane.” But imaginative, and fun.
In high school my fantasy novel writing slowed as I became more self-conscious and entrenched in my faith tradition. I wrote more journals, introspective works, and things like devotional reflections or prayer journals. I was working on one novel, but it was a realistic fiction about a girl who is very lonely and angry until she is befriended by a Christian who tries to convert her. Interestingly, and unconsciously at the time, I think this novel was important for me in writing about two sides of myself, the “me” who I wanted to be and the “me” who was kind of lonely, angry, and doubtful, but who couldn’t come out in my daily life. This period of writing certainly was important for me, not so much as an expression of my nerdy passion or creativity, but as an outlet for expressing my inner thoughts and beliefs. Academically, I also became more adept at essay writing and literary analysis writing and had a lot of fun crafting and explaining theses. My English teacher, especially, praised my writing and I made consistent good grades. Thus, my confidence in my writing grew.
This confidence and enjoyment of academic writing only grew stronger in college, where I felt that I was very adept at research writing and got consistent good feedback. However, any other form of writing took a back seat; I was no longer consistently working on personal projects or even journaling; I started a blog, but only added a few posts about personal thoughts or things I had been reading or writing. I was less a “writer” than a “student” at this point, and I began focusing less on my dream of authorship and more on my goal of teaching. That trend continued for a long time; until very recently, my most consistent writing was either for classes or lesson planning and UbDs. Although I have managed to accrue a lot of half-finished and unfinished novels and short stories on my hard drive, the only fiction I have managed to publish since those days have been fanfictions, and those inconsistently. Much of my personal writing in the last few years has been journals about the upheaval of my beliefs and worldview that occurred during my quarter-life crisis; writing certainly, once again, helped me to process the changes happening in my head and shape my new views and beliefs as I worked through various doubts and problems.
In an attempt to change that inconsistency, and in a grasp for a purpose outside of my job, I have picked up more consistent writing-for-self habits and feel that I have once again become a writer. I started a new blog, which I publish to fairly consistently, and have begun planning to write for NaNoWriMo. I still get my inspiration for writing from books, video games, or movies which I love to engage with, as well as my own passions or frustrations or inner thoughts. I get encouragement from my sister, who reads my blog, and from random internet strangers who read my work on sites where I publish some small fanfictions, and that gives me confidence that I’m still good and writing, and that my words mean something to somebody, even if it’s just through a silly story that they stumble across on the internet. I want to recapture my middle school habits of writing for fun, and not really caring if it’s “meaningful” or “important.”
To conclude, I have always felt that writing was something I enjoyed, something that connected me to my grandfather and authors I admired and helped me use my imagination; it was also something I felt that I was good at, thanks to the praise and encouragement of teachers in my elementary school days and my family. From there, writing was something that I pursued on an intensely personal level. I don’t really remember learning how to do it in school, or if I do I only remember some small words of encouragement or discouragement from teachers, but what I do remember is how writing made me feel, which is excited, free, and clear-headed. It’s something I did and honed from a place of love and reliance; I have always said that, as an introvert, I express myself much better in writing than in speaking. And even though imposter syndrome sets in at times I begin to doubt, the truth that I tell my students still holds: “A writer is anyone who writes anything. Everyone in this class is a writer.”
I am a writer. Hopefully, for the rest of my life, I can continue being a writer. And by writing, share myself with the world.
