At the end of my University practicum, one of the essays I was required to write was "Why do I write?". And as most writers would answer, I said it is because there is a story within me that begs to be told. This seems very generic, but it is also very authentic for most writers. Writing is a passion or an art form that must be expressed. We feel compelled to put that pen in hand and transform our thoughts onto paper. This is the heart of a writer. But in reality, that does not mean that everyone who is passionate about writing should become a professional writer.
Actually, I've tried to walk away from professional writing many times. The long hours of perfecting stories or ideas, just to have them rejected or flop is not food for motivation. Breaking into the spotlight can be very challenging and take years. Most never make it because they give up halfway. So why then do I perceiver? It is a question I have asked myself time and time again. And through honest contemplation, I will bravely share my answer.
The memories of my childhood reflect my passion for storytelling. I was a typical little girl who loved to play with Barbie dolls. I was very fortunate to have many of them and all of the latest accessories. Through these dolls, I could play for hours in my own little world, creating a reality that would reflect the story I created for the day. There was adventure, friendships, family and bad guys too. The dolls and props became my three dimensional storyboard.
Another thing I loved to do was read. I loved books. I loved storybooks, picture books, and books with textures. But most of all, I loved encyclopedias. Yes, you read that correctly; encyclopedias. I had three sets of them. One was the beautifully bound Britannica and the other was the equally lovely Funk and Wagnalls. My grandfather had invested in them for my brother and I. He was an Irishman that understood the value of an educated mind and wanted to be sure his grandchildren had the opportunity of having access to good books. The third set was created specifically for children. Although I cannot remember the name of them, I do remember there was a girl and a boy alternating on the covers. I recall green and orange. These books presented the information with coloured pictures. I loved reading the little bits of information and relating it to a picture. I was absolutely fascinated with these books.
It was no surprise then that I loved poetry and creative writing class in school. When the teacher told us to pull out our books, I would become very excited. But when I was told it wasn't the story writing time, but rather the grammar and structure lessons, I would feel anxiety. Years later I would learn this was because I am dyslexic and naturally struggled with spelling and grammar. By the time I was in grade nine, the school system put me in an English special needs class, and well, any thoughts of becoming a serious writer went out the window of opportunities.
Then by grade eleven something peculiar happened to me. Throughout high school, I became a rebellious type of child (that would be my adhd and dysfunctional home life). I decided to duck out of a class and go to the girls washroom to have a cigarette. It was the 1980's and smoking was frowned upon, but not illegal. While in the washroom stall, puffing away at my cigarette, I had an epiphany. It was strong and absolute. It was, "I will be an author of a famous book". I tossed my cigarette butt in the toilet, flushed and left the stall. One of my friends was standing at the sink, so I shared my moment of an epiphany with her.. We both laughed and shrugged it off. How could I the English reject, possibly become a writer I had told myself.
Without going into the details of my life path, I will tell you that writing was always a part of it, but remained at just a personal level. I was always writing poetry or aphorisms, and recording quotes I would find, or create some quotes of my own. I would write songs, essays for no one to see, or endless pages of research. I would practice my skills of swirls and curls to perfect my hand of writing. Writing was just a simple part of life that I never saw as anything more.
It wasn't until my late thirties and I was in an unemployment office that the window of opportunity would become wide open. I was trying to piece my life back together, hoping something would create a pathway to the future I wanted to live in. It was there that the seed of becoming an actual writer was dropped into my head. Having to upgrade my English 30 and write an exam to gain entrance into a University was the gun going off at the starting gates. I cried when I passed that test. And I silently cried tears of joy when I walked the halls of the University on my first day at school. I understood very well the privilege I had just received, and I embraced it with all my heart. There were lots of directions I could have chosen to go within the program. Technical writing was sure to land me a good paying job. But I was not able to ignore that yearning to be an author or creative writer and explore the vast "what if's". It took me a lot longer to finish the program than most students. But I was also a single mom with three little kids. I was at a pace that would lend me compromise.
Since graduating, I have written a few books and taken on a few jobs that helped to pay the bills. But it always seemed like the jobs damaged me physically for one reason or another. And there was this one time while I was looking for a new job that I had a very intense and powerful dream. The dream was of me working for a big retail company. The manager told me to push the shopping cart into the river. I said no that it would not be right to do so. The manager insisted that I do it. I insisted it would not be right. Then from behind me, I heard my own voice yelling at me to turn around. So I turned. There I was standing on a pedestal looking down at myself with a look of authority. I yelled at myself, "What are you doing? You are a writer. You must continue writing." I woke up and never forgot that clear message.
The truth is, I'm still always looking for another job, because that big famous book hasn't actually manifested just yet. Maybe it will and maybe it won’t. Perhaps I’ll be one of those authors that only becomes famous once they are dead. Classical Immortality. But it would be sad to leave with regrets of not even trying. So, to stop writing is not an option for me. Perhaps I write because it is my destiny, or perhaps it is because words are my art form that I cannot contain. Perhaps it is because that little girl is still inside of me creating stories of magic and adventures, or the part of me that embraces logic, reason and nonfiction wants me to show others how life and the world is such an exciting place to explore. I write because I could not imagine my life otherwise.
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