I didn’t necessarily want to be a writer. Certainly no one
ever suggested it. The first person to mention it was a high school biology teacher who told me he’d haunt me if
I didn’t end up a writer. I preened, but I also smiled and nodded and dismissed the comment because I'd already had The Talk.
Writing doesn't put food on the table.
So I didn't want to be a writer. Telling myself stories was just something I did. It was
a way to pass the time until I got where I really wanted to go. The Air Force Academy.
I was going to fly fighter jets. Yeah, I didn’t care that women couldn’t pilot
fighters in those days. It was a stupid ass rule then and it’s changed now. I
was confident that if I got to the academy, I could and would change minds. I
studied hard.
All the while, I told myself stories. I did that because no
one knew my childhood was filled with sleepless nights. I thought it took
everyone two to three hours to fall asleep every night. I didn’t question. I
just filled those hours in the quiet and the dark spinning unlikely adventures
in my head. Finally, one boring summer, I borrowed Mom’s typewriter and
committed a few of those unlikely adventures to paper. But it was just a lark.
I was going to the Air Force Academy.
Stories were my therapy; a place to dump the angst of the
day. I kept writing them down. Got made fun of a few times when people would
run across a page and read it. It didn’t matter. I wasn’t going to stop. It was
too useful a tool and it was something to do until I got where I wanted to go.
When my father found a page and scoffed at the admittedly
terrible writing, I got the dinner table lecture. You know the one. Writing
doesn’t put food on the table. I, responsibly, I thought, refrained from asking
him who wrote newspapers and magazines and TV shows and movies. Instead, I responded
that I didn’t want to be a writer. I wanted to be a pilot. Dad looked
disappointed. You should be an engineer, he said. To make him happy, I took
technical drawing to see if I could master even the simplest part of being an
engineer. No. That answer was decidedly no. I couldn’t. Back to piloting. I joined
the Civil Air Patrol as a steppingstone to the Air Force Academy. I joined the
Sea Scouts – padding the resume, you know.
And then, at a physical during my sophomore year in high
school, my doctor had to sit me down and explain to me why I would never join
the military, much less go to the Air Force Academy. It was a medical issue –
genetic. Nothing to be done about it except to accept the hard facts. And
honestly, if you know me, you already know the military was an epically stupid
idea given my issues with authority. I soothed myself with stories, but I still
wasn’t interested in being a writer. It was just a past time - something I did
to make myself feel better.
I won’t lie. I flailed for a few years. What do you do when
you lose the thing you thought you’d wanted? I went to college because it was
something to do – not because I had anything in mind. A psychology professor tossed
off a comment – Marcella processes the world through writing – that burrowed in,
and the thought finally landed. Maybe I could be a writer. Maybe my silly
little stories could mean something to someone besides me. What if they could?
Detours ensued. Jobs – because poverty sucks. Life. A few published
books under my belt.
And here I am. Proving my dad wrong. I am putting food on the
table because I’m writing. Granted. It isn’t fiction, necessarily, though that
happens, too. I’m a technical writer in my day job. It’s writing. It pays well.
I still tell myself stories. Sometimes, those stories mature enough to make it
out into the world for other people to read, though admittedly, it takes longer
now with a day job. Do I still dream of writing a great big hit and retreating
to the ivory tower of writing full time? Of course. But until that day I pay
bills with writing. And I tell myself silly stories. You should do that last
bit for yourself, too.
Remember why you do what you do. Hang on to it and don't let go. You started writing for a reason - because it was fun, because you wanted the story you couldn't find elsewhere, because it kept you sane, because insert your reason here. Writing and publishing comprise a long, challenging journey. You'll climb to amazing vistas. You'll descend into fetid swamps that you think will never end. In between you'll trudge through impenetrable jungles and endless plains where the scenery never changes and you'll wonder if that's all there is. And the fact is that yes. That is all there is. The journey. Footstep after footstep. Story after story. 
