Eight Moments in the Life of the Writer: Number 7

As an avid reader, I tried fervently to emulate those writer whom I loved.  As any girl who grew up in the 90s was want to do, I loved Ann M. Martin and Paula Danzinger.  My friend Ashley and I were determined to write a book based on letters, just like our favorite characters Tara*Starr and Elizabeth.  The characters in our own novel were deep and complex.  My character’s name was Albany.  Like the city in New York.  Apparently great literary works tend to have girls with stripper names.  We saved our stories on a floppy disk and passed it back and forth to each other.  Ashely irritated my creative genius by balking at a chapter I wrote in which Albany fell from a fourth story window and was miraculously unharmed.  Slipping in the floppy disk, I noticed she commented, “um. This isn’t realistic.” Forget realistic!  Did this girl want a story or not!?  Would the great Ann M. Martin let such a pesky thing as realism hold her back?  No!  Her characters were always doing ridiculous things like getting stranded on islands after competing in sailboat races.  Stories needed drama.  They needed excitement.  “Fine.  Maybe it was a second story window,” I conceded.  We never did finish the story, but with a name like that, I’m sure Albany goes on to fall out sixth story windows, is hooked on drugs and rides a Harley.  In her stripper heels.  I learned to add creative flair, but not to be ridiculous.  I mean, what kind of name is Albany?

Eight Moments in the Life of the Writer: Number 6

By eleven, I was no longer hiding in the corner. I moved onto the glamorous world of broadcast journalism. Up in our tree house, I penned the talk of the town. Car crashes happened, babies were born, tornadoes zoomed through the city and ball games were won. Then, behind the official news desk of our trundle bed, my brother and I were live, my dad filming and our six year old sister forecasting the weather. She was at least as accurate as our local weatherman. I later related this tale to a boy in my Psych. class at BYU.

“And that,” I explained, “is why I want to be a journalist.”

He looked at me like I was, well, a girl who just told him her college education was based on a hide-a-bed, bad weather reports and fast-breaking news. We all can dream right? You’d think I would remember the Turkey Incident, but I didn’t. Sometimes people just don’t get it. Now, I tell myself, it’s important to tell the truth as a writer, but maybe not all of it at once.

Eight Moments in the Life of the Writer: Number 5

Next, I immersed myself into the world of a writer further still as I grew accustom to brooding in isolation.  While other fourth graders gathered with their friends to play kickball, four square and wall ball, I hunkered against the hot asphalt and cool orange-red bricks.  I fancied myself Harriet the Spy or Amelia as I scribbled furiously in my Amelia notebook my mom bought for me at the Bookfair.  The playground duty thought there was something oddly wrong with me.  Repeatedly, she tried to engage in conversation with me.  Asked what I was writing or reading.  After a few curt answers as I glowered at her through my bangs and hair-bow, she stopped trying.  Of course, there wasn’t anything wrong me!  Well, at least not because I was a skinny, scowling, quiet ten year old. Sitting contentedly in 15 minute intervals carving out, “I HATE WHEN MADDIE writes SCRIBBLES IN MY NOTEBOOK!  SHE THINKS SHE CAN WRITE AND IT’S SO ANNOYING!” I learned another lesson of writing: It’s important to be comfortable alone with your thoughts.

Eight Moments in the Life of the Writer: #3 and 4

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3. and 4.
As a girl of eight, I continued my lifelong quest to capture words.  Their crisp type looked like ants marching across the page.   Neat little rows.  I wrote a Christmas story that began with, "'Hark!'  The Herald Angles sang, as I watched them sing Christmas carols.  I don't remember the rest of the story, but I remember being impressed with my ingenuity.  I couldn't have been more proud than if I had actually penned the carol myself.   My second grade teacher patiently read through each masterpiece and declared, "Please be more descriptive."  The young writer was crushed and more than a little bit upset.  But, I learned two lessons about writing:  It's important to believe in yourself and it's also important to be willing to take criticism, to grow as a writer, an artists and mouse brown second grader with crooked teeth and a side ponytail.

Eight Moments in the Life of the Writer: # 2 Observations

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It started as a young girl of six months, little more than a baby really.  Like our earlier ancestors, I perfected storytelling, babbling to anyone who would listen and, much to my parents' dismay, even to those who would have rather not listened. 

 I mastered the art of simile at four when I exclaimed to my usually petite, pregnant aunt, 

"Aunt Sharla!  You look like a Big Fat Turkey!"

Charming. An astute observer, like any good writer, and I only spoke the truth.

Eight Moments in the Life of the Writer

One: 

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I've always considered myself a kind of dilettante.  You know, Jack-of-All-Trades-Master-of-None.  From collecting random facts, to playing the piano, drawing and eating copious amounts of bacon and chocolate, I do a lot of things moderately well.  However, on particular trait stands out as a constant reminder that you don't choose your fate, fate chooses you.  I've always been a writer.