On Being a “Writer” (part 1 of probably many)

When I was young, I didn’t want to be a ballerina. I wanted to be a writer.

This did not win me many friends, but I didn’t need much. I was content to sit reading most of the time. I remember my first sleepover with my childhood best friend. We were eager to stay up late…to read in silence next to each other. We were bookworms; our parents rejoiced.

I have an expansive imagination—then and now. I attribute a lot of this to my early years, head stuck in a book. A wonder was that, back then, I never feared this quixotic capacity. There was no such thing as “writer’s block.” I spent hours filling pages of my handmade chapbooks, never once staring at the empty first page in terror, not knowing how to begin or who would like it.

Years later, I decided to attend the Interlochen Arts Academy for high school, majoring in Creative Writing. I constantly marvel at the girl I once was. As insecure and unsure of myself as I felt, I look back and realize she was very brave.

I had the ability to live life with an open, tender heart.

I don’t know when exactly I stopped writing, but I know why: I became a coward. This, compounded by the fact that I somehow developed the concern for being “cool,” I threw my writing under the bed like a childhood stuffed animal when adult guests come over.

This has been enough, for now, but my mission is clear. I mean to find fight my way back to one of my strongest essential truths.

I am a writer.


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