Cuz Tramps Like Us, Baby We Were Born to Write

I've been thinking a lot about childhood memories lately. Specifically those moments in time when I knew I was born to be a writer.

Every artist has those moments.

It's like when we see childhood photos of American Idol contestants, each one holding a microphone and singing, or sitting with a guitar balanced precariously across their tiny toddler legs. I think a lot of us have photos like that. And some of us had parents who thought for sure we'd become music legends. Or Olympic swimmers. Or whatever it was we loved to do as kids.

It doesn't always mean we'll adopt those interests and turn them into careers, especially if you're a jack-of-all-trades like me.

I've had a lot of interests in my life, but after I master one, I move on to the next. I wasn't like those American Idol contestants, who have only ever wanted to do one thing in their life. I wanted to do it all.

Still do, but with one exception.

I can always look back and see telltale signs that writing was different. I knew I'd never be able to "master" writing and move on to something else. It would stick with me throughout it all. It would be that thread that ran through everything, tying my myriad of skills and interests all together.

I remember sitting in AP Algebra in high school, hiding a sheet of paper under my book and trying to sneak a few written words onto the page when my teacher wasn't looking. One time I dropped my book on the floor and the teacher got a glimpse of my writing. She called me out on it, furious I was scribbling words instead of numbers. Words did not belong in her class, so whatever I was writing must have been frivolous. Probably a note about a boy. Because we girls have nothing better to write about.

Well, in all honestly, it probably was about a boy, but he was a made up boy, a character from the depths of my imagination, one I'd conjured and created, and one who meant far more to me than that teacher (who always detested me) or those algebra equations. And he was probably doing something fabulous, like skipping AP Algebra to Save. The. World.

Not that I'd expect an algebra teacher to understand. And I'm not advocating writing fiction in lieu of paying attention in class! But I will always remember the way she called me out that day in front of everyone. How red my face must have been! Like I'd done something dirty and forbidden.

Instead of stewing over that memory all these years later, I look back and point to that moment and say, "See? I couldn't help myself. I was born to be a writer."

I remember stapling the pages of my stories together and letting my friends read them in the girl's bathroom in elementary school. I remember that feeling of giddiness when they'd beg to read more.

I remember staying inside on beautiful summer days, typing out ghost stories on my dad's electric typewriter, sipping a Pepsi in a camouflage cooler cup and munching on a Frick's ham sandwich. (By the way, Frick's has a Facebook page. That just blew my mind a little...)

 

In middle school, I remember writing in between breaks at basketball camp at the local college. One of the other campers read a bit of one of my stories and took off racing with it to show the English professor who worked there. He only glanced at the first page, which if I remember correctly, went something like this:

"Susie! It's time to get up!" Mom called up the stairs.
"Coming!" I said, exasperated. I sat up in bed and flipped my long red hair over my shoulder.
"It's time to get up now, and I mean it!" Mom yelled again.
"I said I'm coming!"

etc. etc.

It was riveting stuff.

The professor laughed, adjusted his glasses, and handed my masterpiece back to me. He thought I was "cute." I could tell by how entertained he was by my sorry attempt at literature. I, on the other hand, was mortified. I hadn't wanted this man to see my writing, but there I was, Coke bottle glasses, fluorescent pink  shorts and all, waiting for his verdict.

I remember he said something like, "I see you have an interest in writing!" After that there came this awful buzzing in my ears (that happens when my face goes red) and I didn't really pay attention to anything he said after that. I remember little snippets like, "Keep working at it!" and "It takes a long time to learn how to write well," and "Maybe I'll see you in one of my classes one day."

I pretty much got the heck outta there and never showed my writing to anyone ever again. Well, for a long time at least.

I remember years later showing my writing to two people I thought I trusted, only to get smacked in the face. One (my boyfriend at the time) accused me that my story had a hidden meaning, that the characters were based on real people, and that I was, in fact, professing my love for someone else, right there on the page.

Um. Riiiiiiiight.

Why do some people do that? Why do they look for a hidden meaning when there isn't one? Or assume a writer's imagination is so limited that their characters must all be caricatures of real people? Their story lines fantastical renditions of their own life?

Puh-leeze.

But anyway. Moving on.

Probably one of my most obvious Aha! moments was in college. My biology course was held in a lecture hall, one of those steep, stadium seating rooms with cushy, squeaky chairs. The professor did all his lecturing with the help of a projector, so the lights were always off. It was a napper's paradise. Only I didn't nap; I wrote.

I only went to that class to write stories.

And that's sort of when the light bulb went off, and I dared myself to think that maybe I could do this for a living.

Dear God, could I do this for a living?

From that moment on, I've devoted myself to bettering my craft. Not because I'm just looking for a job I enjoy, but because writing is something I must do. It's been a part of me since I could draw pictures, scribble words with Transformers push point pencils, or type on a Compaq Luggable computer.

I have characters who deserve to have their stories told. They deserve to live for 300 or so pages and take a stroll inside your mind.

That's where they belong, and I hope you'll get to meet them all one day. In the meantime, I enjoy looking back at those snapshots -- they remind me why I'm riding this never-ceasing, emotional roller coaster. Because no matter what's going on in my life, I have sanctuary in the written word. And there are millions of stories to tell.

I almost feel like I don't have enough time.

So? What were some of your Aha! moments -- those little snapshots you can point to and say YES, I was born to do this? Share in the comments below.

Cuz tramps like us, baby we were born to write!