How Did I Become a Writer?

Honorable Mention in the "How Did YOU Become a Writer" Contest

How Did I Become a Writer?

(To be, or not to be)

I'm of the persuasion that writers are not made, but born. This is especially true in fiction. One either has the gift or they don't. This is certainly not to say that someone of average intelligence, with a working knowledge of the English language, cannot study, learn, and hone their craft into acceptable work. In fact, those who are extremely intelligent (this would exclude myself), especially with the benefit of higher learning (this would also exclude myself), do it all the time. The endless rows of boring, lifeless, books and novels at your local retail outlet are a memorial to this truth. Now that I've finished my unsolicited tirade, where do I fit in?

With my younger brother as my band-mate, using pots and pans as instruments, I began writing songs in grade school. My first piece: The right girl is truly a great thing; the right girl is truly a great thing. Right girl walking with me, oh yes the right girl talking with me. The right girl is truly a great thing.

I never went anywhere without my poetry pad, but soon learned that girls weren't interested in goofy kids reciting poetry. It wasn't until I acquired my first guitar, and set my poems to music, that I discovered an amusing phenomenon: my words had somehow become magically profound. Girls go crazy for musicians!

Although I thoroughly enjoyed my music career, it delayed my fictional endeavors for many years. In high school, I daydreamed about becoming a famous novelist, like John Steinbeck. The army, marriage, two children, song writing, and the business of life all came first. In my forties, a crippling hand condition ended my ability to perform as a singer/songwriter. My search for a creative outlet led me to what I was always meant to be: a fiction writer. I know this as surely as I'm composing this autobiographical essay.

I've been telling stories my whole life; nevertheless, writing them down is a different animal. Writing is certainly a craft, like carpentry or playing the guitar. The building blocks must be learned and then practiced repeatedly. Looking back, although loaded with inspiration, my first attempts were bogged down with poor structure and lack of proper writing technique. But the pearl was in there. I began studying with a passion; my shelves are packed with instructional books.

I'm taking every available step to improve my prose (like joining Writing .com). Slowly and surely the pearls in my stories are becoming clear and shiny. The first story I ever wrote, The Farm, recently won first place in The Great Short Story Contest. I forget how many rewrites went into that effort. Any aspiring fiction writer, who has seriously considered this path, knows the massive hurdles and obstacles that must be overcome to realize their dream.

Anytime I second-guess myself, wondering if I'm bonkers for believing that I can write The Great American Novel, I stop and remember how far I've traveled. I attended school in a rural community, where grades one through four were together in the same classroom. I was taught sight-reading, not phonics; consequently, spelling has been a continuing struggle for me. I don't have a degree in English or creative writing, and I'm beginning my career when most novelists are at the height of their powers. I've never worked at a newspaper or any other occupation relating to writing (other than writing songs). And in the face of all these overwhelming odds, I take a breath and imagine the day my future agent calls and says Random House has signed on the dotted line.

It will take a great deal of time and effort--and elements not yet known to me--to create the masterpiece my heart envisions. But oh what a journey! I understand that rejection and disappointments will be the signposts along the way. Being a writer makes me look past these inevitable setbacks to a place deep inside myself. I consider writing to be the highest calling of introspection. It makes me evaluate who I am, where I came from, and who I want to be. It makes me wrestle with my deepest fears, desires, values, and beliefs. It makes me ponder my mistakes, experiences, abilities, weaknesses.

What can I offer my fellow human beings? What is it that I have to say? Make no mistake, to be a great writer, one must have something to say and the gift to express it on paper in an extraordinary way.

As I look into this enormous chasm, something springs alive in me-like the robins appearing outside my window and the grass turning green. The earth is renewing itself with a magnanimous decoration and splendor. It makes me think of Huckleberry Finn or Pip in Great Expectations. Yes! As surely as Shakespeare asked the ultimate question in Hamlet, I know that I was born to be a writer.



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