I’ve wanted to be a writer/author/whatever for quite some time. I’m not going to lie and say that it has always been my life-long dream. I wanted to be an astronaut until I was in 10th grade.
After failing chem in the 10th grade, I decided that I was kind of stupid. Well, no, not exactly. But my dreams for being an astronaut were dashed into pieces and I just figured that I’d be an artist. I also liked writing, but I never took it very seriously because I didn’t take any class in school seriously. I didn’t take English seriously at all. I loved reading, but I hated doing the busy-work that my teachers assigned to me. I had a bit of a chip on my shoulder.
Instead of schoolwork, I concentrated on art and music in high school. All of my friends were artists of some kind. I was happy hanging out with kids and building lego structures or sitting at a coffee shop and sketching rather than going to a football game. A few of my artists were very talented. While I wasn’t as talented as they were at visual art, I had my own creative endeavors. I’d always say, “One day, when I write a book…” and finish it with some kind of observation.
When it was time to start looking at colleges, at first I figured I’d go to an art school. I think that it was assumed. All of my friends were going to art school. Not to sound really arrogant, but I was better than several of them. There were a few that were way better artists than I was, but I still knew a lot of kids who were only okay that were going to art school. Everyone figured I’d do the same.
I felt like I shouldn’t. Instead, I moved from PA to UT and went to a typical, normal state school. Nothing special. Most of the kids who went to my college were becoming nurses or teachers. I had no idea what I was doing there.
Eventually, I decided to major in English. Writing came naturally to me. I had been keeping a journal for several years. However, most of the writing I was doing was academic. Towards the end of the my experience in college, I took a few creative writing classes. One of my teachers asked, “Where’s your voice?” I cried, and I’ve been searching ever since. That was the point when I timidly told myself, “Maybe I’d like to be a writer.”
So, it’s been this thought, this little idea for years.
Fast forward 14 years, and I’ve been raising a family, I’ve worked, I’ve moved, I’ve been married, I’ve been divorced, and I’ve been remarried. I’ve lived life. But the little bug to write has never left.
This post is already too long. I’m not a published author. I want to be one. I’m already a writer. It’s onto the next challenge. I feel like what I have to say is something that people might like to read, too. This blog will document my experience with writing, publishing, and whatever follows as I start to chase this silly dream.