I used to be a writer.
I was a writer.
I am a writer.
I have always been a writer.
The magic of tenses is everlasting. The magic of words is infinite.
When I was young, I didn't know what I wanted to do. I don't mean a career. I mean a passion.
My affection was family of fireflies. Here one moment, there the next.
I danced, I swam, I drew, I skied, I even sang for a bit. And let us not forget the summer after fifth grade - I professionally watched television. That counts for something.
But there was something I had always been good with. And frankly, it was because I had been exposed to a lot of it.
Words.
I remember fourth grade fondly. I tested into the highest reading level. I got 100% on every single spelling test (well, except for one...but that's a story for another day). I was some sort of Class Word Monitor. I wrote the spelling words on a poster at the back of the room, and the only word I ever spelled wrong was "professional." To this day, I hesitate a moment after I write it. Just to be sure that I haven't etched it in green marker, into the weekly word poster, for all of my fourth grade class to see.
My fourth grade teacher has encouraged my writing for years. I most definitely was not a rookie by the time I hit middle school.
My sixth grade English teacher gave me a B+ first term. I must admit, one of the worst days of my life was the day I got my sixth grade report card. I can't remember if I was upset so much as confused. What was going on? Who was I? I didn't want to finish the question, but it sounded a lot like this in the depths of my conscience:
Who was I without my writing?
The rest of sixth grade went well. Seventh, too. Eighth rolled around, and my teacher loved my writing. In fact, I was co-writing a novel through most of seventh grade and into eighth.
Then high school.
It's been smooth sailing, actually, but for a few blips like sixth grade. Where I wonder who I am.
It took me a long, long, long time to figure out that I wasn't going to be a "writer" in the traditional sense. Sure, I co-authored a book when I was thirteen. Sure, I had awesome English grades.
But in the past few months, the quality of my writing has tumbled down a hill--into a rabbit hole. It's rolled far away from the Hatter's Tea Party. And it's cost me my self-confidence; or at least significant chunks of it.
But I can't let that tear me apart. Because I have found my way through life with these words. I have fought through the hurt of being from a nontraditional family, being eccentric, being human.
I continue to face the horrors of growing up in this idealistic (one might even say postmodern) society.
And I do it all armed with my words.
Words of irritation. Words flung to the wrong corners of the world. Words of frustration. Words of anger. Words of pain. Words of destruction. Words of silence. Words of solace. Words of curiosity. Words of thoughtfulness. Words of hope and love and compassion for the world and myself.
The words of others. The words I someday hope to have.
They all face me, nestled comfortably within a mirror. They stare back messily and beautifully, like the careless creatures that we are. They stare back, and remind me:
There is no "was" to me. I cannot say "I was a writer." Because who I was is a part of who I am and who I will be. And they all twirl together and jumble up to make the person I am as I span space and time and the universe.
So maybe I wasn't meant to be a "writer." But who says you have to fit under a label to fit yourself?
Who says you can't just be?
I was a writer.
I am a writer.
I have always been a writer.
The magic of tenses is everlasting. The magic of words is infinite.
When I was young, I didn't know what I wanted to do. I don't mean a career. I mean a passion.
My affection was family of fireflies. Here one moment, there the next.
I danced, I swam, I drew, I skied, I even sang for a bit. And let us not forget the summer after fifth grade - I professionally watched television. That counts for something.
But there was something I had always been good with. And frankly, it was because I had been exposed to a lot of it.
Words.
I remember fourth grade fondly. I tested into the highest reading level. I got 100% on every single spelling test (well, except for one...but that's a story for another day). I was some sort of Class Word Monitor. I wrote the spelling words on a poster at the back of the room, and the only word I ever spelled wrong was "professional." To this day, I hesitate a moment after I write it. Just to be sure that I haven't etched it in green marker, into the weekly word poster, for all of my fourth grade class to see.
My fourth grade teacher has encouraged my writing for years. I most definitely was not a rookie by the time I hit middle school.
My sixth grade English teacher gave me a B+ first term. I must admit, one of the worst days of my life was the day I got my sixth grade report card. I can't remember if I was upset so much as confused. What was going on? Who was I? I didn't want to finish the question, but it sounded a lot like this in the depths of my conscience:
Who was I without my writing?
The rest of sixth grade went well. Seventh, too. Eighth rolled around, and my teacher loved my writing. In fact, I was co-writing a novel through most of seventh grade and into eighth.
Then high school.
It's been smooth sailing, actually, but for a few blips like sixth grade. Where I wonder who I am.
It took me a long, long, long time to figure out that I wasn't going to be a "writer" in the traditional sense. Sure, I co-authored a book when I was thirteen. Sure, I had awesome English grades.
But in the past few months, the quality of my writing has tumbled down a hill--into a rabbit hole. It's rolled far away from the Hatter's Tea Party. And it's cost me my self-confidence; or at least significant chunks of it.
But I can't let that tear me apart. Because I have found my way through life with these words. I have fought through the hurt of being from a nontraditional family, being eccentric, being human.
I continue to face the horrors of growing up in this idealistic (one might even say postmodern) society.
And I do it all armed with my words.
Words of irritation. Words flung to the wrong corners of the world. Words of frustration. Words of anger. Words of pain. Words of destruction. Words of silence. Words of solace. Words of curiosity. Words of thoughtfulness. Words of hope and love and compassion for the world and myself.
The words of others. The words I someday hope to have.
They all face me, nestled comfortably within a mirror. They stare back messily and beautifully, like the careless creatures that we are. They stare back, and remind me:
There is no "was" to me. I cannot say "I was a writer." Because who I was is a part of who I am and who I will be. And they all twirl together and jumble up to make the person I am as I span space and time and the universe.
So maybe I wasn't meant to be a "writer." But who says you have to fit under a label to fit yourself?
Who says you can't just be?
Sam
Comments
Post a Comment