I’ve never had anything published online before, which is funny, or sad, or something — because I say I’m a writer. And I am. Or I was.
As a kid, I would spend time in my room and on vacation making up stories in my journal, about families, about places in the Midwest I hadn’t ever visited, about the boy in my 5th-grade class who refused to slow dance with me at the school dance.
In high school, one of my favorite classes was English, specifically grammar. Who likes grammar? People who like to write do, and they love breaking. The. Rules. In college, I majored in English. I loved to read and write: research papers, thesis papers, expository writing papers. I’m now thinking there’s a correlation between that and the grammar thing. But I also enjoyed the more creative classes, too — creative writing, writing the profile, food & culture. Soul filling stuff. I loved watching where my mind would wander and go, or stay, and then go again.
Fast forward to the “real world.” I got to write a lot in my first job, which sounds great for someone who loves to put pen to paper. But I was writing mostly to customers, and mostly not for fun. And then, like yesterday’s package from UPS, it just dropped off.
Now, I’m at a professional crossroads, and I’m going back to the basics to “figure it out.” What do I enjoy? What did I enjoy doing as a kid? Writing, art. Those two interests/passions/talents of mine always resurface; neglecting them, I say sadly, has been as easy as falling asleep with the TV on.
But this (the publishing of this piece) is my reflection/proclamation/officialization/non-neglection. Non-neglection, I say! I’m a writer again.
