Growing up I always had ambitions. As a child I had many
different interests that lead to lots of different career aspirations; everything
from paleontologist, to an FBI agent, to an environmental scientist and plenty
of variations in between. I am not sure why I never said specifically that I
wanted to be a writer as a profession to pursue. Possibly my mother told me I
couldn’t make much money as a writer? It could have also been the fact that as
a child, I wrote for fun. I wrote for pleasure and never did I think that
something I enjoyed doing could be at the forefront of my existence, a possibility
for making a living. I am almost certain that I didn’t even think my writing
could ever live up to anyone’s expectations, much less my own.
I remember the first time I caught a glimmer of the
possibility that I might have it in me to be a writer, when I was in the 6th
grade. I wrote a fictional story about some friends at summer camp (really it
was a true story about my girl scout friends and I hiking our way out of camp
onto a highway) but I cleverly disguised the names so no one would know (I think
I changed my name to Kate in the story just to put my disguise skills into
perspective.) Anyways, I got a 96 on the paper and a note that said I was a
good writer. My spelling, as usual was my fatal flaw, failing to get me a
perfect 100%. I wrote a few decent things after that but then the turmoil of
teenage years came and after that the beer guzzling college years and really I
had “no time” to write anything profound (more like I was extremely
distracted.) I was just trying to regurgitate whatever I had been taught in
whatever class it was I was trying to slide my way through.
The next insight into my future would not come until years
later, while I was working in retail management. My co-worker, whom I had a
ridiculous crush on at the time, told me that I was a writer. We were just
standing there behind the counter one day and he just said it out of the blue.
Of course when I started at him with my “what the heck does that mean” face he
stopped and explained himself. I was well spoken and my emails and notes
describing situations were eloquent. This gave me great excitement and I will
never forget it (ok maybe I was just excited the guy had noticed me) but no,
actually I was happy to hear it.
Finally, when I first started my current job, the assistant to
the executive looked straight at me and told me I was a writer. I wasn’t even
sure where she got that from, possibly my outstanding correspondence? Who
knows. All I know is I found her statement somewhat eirre at the time but I
kept on trucking. It wasn’t until I started this blog, and received an
opportunity to write at work that it finally hit ME. It took 30 years but I
finally could look myself in the eye and say that I am a writer. This is me,
this is who I am, who I have always been. This is my fate, my destiny, my transcending
moment. Ever since then, I have had added confidence and an amazing sense of
self that I have honestly never had. This was my moment of clarity when I could
say that I know myself, I know who I am. I know who I have always been. Some
people just saw it before I did.
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