My friend Nicole (not the Nicole who sometimes comments on here; a different Nicole, who’s another writer in my ARWA group) asked that question of a bunch of us. I’m stealing the response I posted and reposting it here, in hopes that those of you who read my blog and write will post your own answers, too.
I started writing before I could physically write, really. When I was maybe 4 years old, I would make my mom write my stories for me in this little blank book with a mouse on the cover. (Realistic mice dressed up in clothes were one of my childhood obsessions. I had about 25 mice dolls — still have them, and they still make my mouth water when I open the little suitcase where they live. I would make them “mouse houses” during recess in the roots of trees, with little berries for food and sticks in the shape of Ys stuck into the ground, with other straight sticks laid across them, and more sticks across those, to make a roof. That way, the mice could sleep on the ground and stay dry in the case of rain. The mouse on the cover of my old story journal wears a little white lacy Victorian dress — very lovely.)
Anyway, all my stories at age three and four were set deep in the woods — the kind of dark, thick, tall evergreen forests we don’t really have here in Texas — and there were always monsters and evil stepmothers, and characters named things like “Strawberry” and “Cupcake.” Clearly, I was heavily influenced by fairy tales. And food. Go figure.
One time my granddad, Dick, was visiting and my mom was busy, so I got Dick to write down my story for me. His handwriting was shaky, and he wrote carefully and slowly, pressing down hard with the pen. I remember being very interested in the deep grooves left on the side of his middle finger and the pad of his thumb when he was finished writing that story for me.
So I grew up writing, and knowing I was a writer. I got a lot of reinforcement in that self-perception from my parents and teachers, in the form of gifts of nice pens, blank journals, good grades and encouraging comments on my stories for class, and so on.
I’ve always wondered, though, if I would have “known” so assuredly that I was a writer if my mom hadn’t always wanted to be one. She took a poetry class once and wrote some incredible poems that blew me away. Maybe she did other, private writing, but if so, she never showed it to me, and she never pursued publication.
Sometimes I think this deep, sure feeling of self-knowledge of mine — I am a writer — might just be…living out the dream my mom had, and didn’t pursue. It’s kind of a weird feeling. What makes us what we are?
On the other hand, I do really think I was meant to be a writer, since, for one thing, I make my living writing, and for another, it’s the thing I do best, and I pay attention to words and nuances of meaning almost obsessively. Okay, not “almost”; flat-out obsessively.
Your turn — how long have you been writing, or doing whatever you do? When did you know that’s what you were meant to do?
Love, Catherine
7 responses so far ↓
Courtney // January 25, 2008 at 7:28 pm
Well, I haven’t been writing long…since 2003. And I never actually thought of myself as a writer though I don’t know why. Just for some reason I thought I wouldn’t be good at it and it isn’t like something told me I wasn’t so not sure where I got my hang up from.
But I’ve always been interested in relationships and role play, though I guess all kids are at some point. In true girly fashion I was a Barbie girl. I had Barbies galore. And Ioved setting Barbie and Ken up, going on dates, playing house, etc.
I’ve always been sucker for a love story even at really young age. As I grew out of Barbies I would just make up stories in my mind, which I still do. I got really into romance novels as a teenager and the making up stories in my mind became more and more. But it wasn’t until I lost my job in 2003 that I thought, hey I should try to write this stuff down. And I’ve been doing it ever since (ever so slowly it may be). So, I guess for me it has always been about pictures in my head.
Bianca Reagan // January 26, 2008 at 1:28 am
Ever since I was thirteen, I have been a development executive. Except I never got paid for writing treatments for TV shows and movies that would guarantee my favorite child stars Golden Globe nominations.
I’d expound, but I’m tired. Also, I met these people tonight. Coolness!
Lexi Connor // January 26, 2008 at 2:23 am
I’ve been writing for as long as I can remember. I didn’t start thinking of writing to get published until I was in college, but it was still such a pipe dream then. I started writing with romance in mind in 1999, when I joined RWA, but I still didn’t take myself too seriously. Then in 2003 I actually started a business plan, worked 20-30 hours a week on writing, entered my 1st contest and got serious about craft.
I was not one on the Barbie train, but I also “wrote stories in my head” early on. I had Barbies, but I had more fun running them over with my Matchbox cars and uncovering the mystery of why the bad guy chose that specific Barbie to kidnap or kill!
mrcanacorn // January 26, 2008 at 6:40 pm
I’m not a writer like Ms. Catherine, but I guess I do write…
No Barbies here, but I did plan out great adventures for my Star Wars “action figures” in elementary school. As I grew and matured into a fine young teenager, my G.I. Joes had the most glorious escapades…it would take me hours to set up the action. I’m not just talking about placing the various vehicles and figures around overturned cushions and boxes, but the actual planning of the story. Comic books, action movies, and fantasy novels were my main inspirations…so wild set pieces abounded, double crosses and broken trusts were common, and lots of death and revenge usually ended the day.
Truthfully, I played with my Joes alone (no one else “played right”) all the way through middle school. As I got older, my stories turned very dark and grim…horror movies had become my main cinematic diet, so my characters suffered many physical and mental humiliations my 8th grade year….I’d like to apologize to Scarlett for all the horrible crap Destro did to her.
Anyway, in high school, I wrote horrible poetry inspired by the “great” poet, Jim Morrison. I had a copy of Wilderness and I wrote my poems next to his…even better, sometimes, I would continue his poems with my own writings. Gag.
The main bulk of my writing took place from about 1994 to 2000. That’s when I started keeping a journal. I worked at a book store, so I got tons of free magazines. I would spend days clipping out pictures and taping them all through the empty journals. My writing was loose…no worries about spelling or grammar, and purely just for me. Once my ex wife and I finally split (we spent 10 years together), it was too painful to document my simple life anymore. The final journal was tied closed with a shoelace and tossed into a box with all the other journals, never to be read again. I still have them in the attic and I’m sure I’ll go through them someday.
Jeez, this is getting long…uh, anyway, got on Myspace a few years ago, started keeping a blog (it didn’t really have much writing in it), moved to WordPress to try and push myself to write a little more (still not much writing going on there), and have no plans to be a “real” writer.
I’m looking forward to the eventuality of having a baby so I can start a paper journal again…filled with pictures from magazines, of course.
Bianca Reagan // January 27, 2008 at 11:46 pm
Hooray for babies, mrcanacorn!
mrcanacorn // January 28, 2008 at 8:29 pm
Hooray indeed, Bianca….but a bit premature…you see, The Wife and I plan on having a baby…someday. Sorry to be misleading.
Camille Alexa // February 2, 2008 at 12:27 am
I don’t know what I ‘do’ yet. I figure I have a few more decades to decide before I run out of time.