When I was young, I wanted to be a writer. Actually, I wanted to be a writer until I came to college and life fell apart (as it does). I don’t know if I loved writing because I actually enjoyed it or because everyone told me I was amazing. The fun part about coming to college is that everyone stops telling you how amazing you are. But in middle school I had an English teacher tell me I was the best writer she’d taught in her entire career. My favorite English teacher in high school proofread my college application essays and told me she wished she could write as well as I could. A few months ago, when I was working at Academy and felt like the emotional equivalent of a brown napkin stuck to a table leg, an English teacher from my middle school whose class I’d never even taken recognized me and reminded me of my reputation.
It’s pretty depressing, honestly, because there was never anything especially amazing about me. I guess I was amazing because I read more than anyone else, because I had good grammar and used flashy figurative language. Because I was good at it. It was a system. But was I ever great? Could I ever write a book?
I tried, seriously, once. I could never really get the plot down. It was a bunch of relationships and ended up devolving into basically a soap opera with lesbians and unplanned pregnancies.
I took a creative writing class my first semester in college and it hurt but in a good way. It hurt like growing. I wish I’d taken it a bit more seriously.
I’m going to try to write here a bit every day. Snippets of stories in my head, maybe? Scenes? It’ll be like exercising. Maybe someday I’ll write a book and be famous and everyone will see how humble my beginnings were. Or something. Unclear.
It’ll be okay though. I’m going to be good.