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Yesterday, I did something I hadn’t done since I was a child. I submitted a short story in a contest. The last time I did so, I won an entry to a young author’s conference, a signed copy of Jane Yolen’s Dragon’s Blood, and the certainty that yes, I should, in fact, be a writer when I grew up. So what happened? Where did that determined little writer go?
Through high school, I continued to write stories, poetry, and in endless journals. Several pieces of my writing were published in our high school’s anthology, but I didn’t take those periodicals seriously. In college, I aced my required English courses, easily procuring “A” grades from the professors who never issued “A’s”. My future as a writer was assured; I poured every heartbreak onto paper. I was definitely going to live a literary life. Right?
Sadly, no. I bought into the myth that being a writer is not a real occupation. Pragmatically, I decided to pursue a major that would land me a job upon graduation and provide me with a steady paycheck. A job that would cover the bills and give me the option of living a grown-up life. So I, with my love of reading and writing, with my formal liberal arts education and active imagination, let Fear turn me away from my love of words and stories.
Over time, I grew so estranged from my creative writing roots that I’m not sure what motivated me to begin to write again. Now, with one novel about to enter its third draft, another 90% outlined, six more loosely planned, two short stories polished and submitted to contests (yes plural!), I wonder how I ever let myself stop.
“It’s never too late – in fiction or in life – to revise.”
― Nancy Thayer
I wholeheartedly bought the myth that writers must struggle and sacrifice for the privilege of calling themselves, writers. I thought that to be a writer meant having no day job and no steady income. I was convinced that being a writer was definitely never going to fund my hobby of hobby collection. I could either be a writer -OR- I could be an X, have Y, and enjoy Z. I wish someone had told me that those black and white thoughts were so off base; I regret that I’ve lost years where I could have been writing.
If I could talk to the 22-year-old me, fresh out of college and ready to conquer the world, I would remind her that writing can and should be a part of her life even if her paycheck comes from somewhere else. Click To TweetThat the creation and crafting of story can occur even in a busy life.
Luckily for me, that determined little writer is back and is demanding a chance to play and create. And hoping, of course, to win another contest.
Have you taken a serious break from your writing?