How Did You Become A Writer?

Before anyone even begins to open their mouth to let the words, "So, how did you become a writer?" escape their lips, allow me to offer a warning.

It's a long story.

An interesting story? I think so.

Is it intriguing? Uh, sure, I suppose.

Does it have a good ending? The jury's still out on that one, because my story of writeousness is perpetual.

I discovered the power of words at my friend Yvette's house. Yvette lived in the projects and normally my parents wouldn't have let me sleep over at such a location, but Yvette's mom was attending our church's congregation and looked like a prime candidate for joining, so they allowed it, hoping, I guess, to win points. Yvette's brother Scotty, age 9, knew words I'd never heard before. I asked Yvette what they meant and she grinned and looked away from me, mumbling, "I'll have to tell you sometime later."

When I tried out one of the words in our gentler neighborhood setting, it was as if the world stopped turning. And not in a good way. My previously quiet and shy self had just created an impact like none other I'd been able to make previously. My mother was alerted (Thank you, snotty Kim that lived up the street. You always were a snitch) and steps were taken to assure that I'd not be using that particular verbage again in the future. At least not around snitches, anyway.

All I'll have to do is write the words 'middle child', and you'll get the basic picture. The oldest got the good grades, did her best to please the parents, was always the one winning awards in school and promotions at work. The younger ones were cute and got the attention. I was just sort of there. If I pouted, that might bring the adults around, but not for the long-term. If I tried to stand out, I was told I was showing off.

Here again, when it came to attention, words didn't fail me. No matter how faltering I was at math, science, or social studies, there was often that language teacher who couldn't help but say, "Your daughter seems to have a way with words."

At least I had something to cling to, although I had no idea how that was going to help me in a chaotic houseful of five children, two adults and a dog. I hadn't thought of it until just now; I should have maybe put out a newsletter.

My parents were strict. Unreasonably so, in my opinion. I thought my opinion of the level of strictness might eventually decrease as the years wore on and I got further and further away from childhood, but no. It hasn't. They were strict. Unreasonably so.

When I got poor marks my eighth grade year in mathematics, my father grounded me to my windowless basement level bedroom for the quarter. I could only come out of the room to eat, use the restroom, or shower. Phone calls, tv, and books that weren't textbooks were strictly off limits. Because I couldn't call anyone or receive phone calls, my circle of friends gradually decreased, then faded to a very weak trickle. Fourteen being an awkward age anyway, this was not helpful. School became a pretty lonely place, with no respite because home was that way, too.

I had to have an outlet. I turned to journaling. Writing something down in a notebook looks exactly the same as taking notes, if you've got a textbook out and opened. If my father looked in on me to see if I was hard at it, his eyes met the fact that I was. Hard at writing stories. About sad teenage girls trapped in basement bedrooms that had mean fathers. I wrote several of these novelettes over the course of the quarter, in notebooks that, once filled, I hid in my clothing drawers. And I pulled an A in math, since I wanted to see sunlight again.

Spend a few months in near solitary confinement with no one to express to but a notebook and a pen, and just see what happens. It couldn't help but solidify the writer in me.