Like most kids I was repeatedly bombarded with the "And what do you want to be when you grow up?" question. When I was three my answer was "A paleontologist." Because I liked dinosaurs and thought digging in the ground would be fun. And once people got past the shock that a three year old knew big words, this was a perfectly acceptable answer. Because it was unrealistic. Or at least in their minds it was. And for some reason people expect children's answers to be based in whimsy and to be completely unattainable. Which seems a little silly to me, because I could just have easily followed that career path as any other, had I wanted to.
But that desire quickly fled when I realized that you could get paid to write stories. And from that point forward my answer was always "An author." At first, it was "cute". People thought this was also unrealistic, but perfectly acceptable for a child of four to dream of. The problem came when I didn't grow out of it. All throughout grade school that was my answer. And I devoured books like they were vital sustenance. I read, and read, and read. It got to the point where I was repeatedly told to "Put that book away!" I'd read during math class (my least favorite), or walking down the school hallways. I'd hide a book under the dinner table and try to read while we ate, which led to many a library book stained with spaghetti sauce.
And then came middle school, where the questions were accompanied by career aptitude tests, and #2 pencils. And my answer of "an author" became unacceptable. At the least I was told that I needed a fall back plan. At the worst I was told that this was a silly goal, and I needed to pick something else. I had some really pessimistic guidance counselors. But I also had some really great teachers who encouraged me. And I continued this struggle between standardized testing results and my goals of literary achievement through high school.
I wrote scores and scores of horrible poetry. And a few that weren't too bad. I wrote dozens of short stories, and entered writing competitions. I took every creative writing opportunity to overflow notebooks with, admittedly amateur, prose. But out of the dozens of examples of bad writing, I can look back now and see something developing. Sometimes you have to learn how to do something wrong before you can do it right.
And then... I graduated. And where did I go from there? No where really. Maybe all the negative things the doubters said effected me more than I realized. Because I never picked up the pen to write that novel. I stopped writing all together for awhile. And I'm not really sure why. Maybe out of fear? Or laziness? For whatever reason, the words seemed to dry up.
Two years ago I wrote and self-published my first book. Everyone seemed to see this as some sort of validation. "Now you're a published author, like you always wanted!" Only... that's not really what I meant. Sure, it was a huge accomplishment. It's an instructional book about lace making. I wrote it from cover to cover, and even handled all the lay out and graphics myself. It's not that I'm not proud of it. But it doesn't make me an author. Not an author of stories. And that is what I've always wanted.
I still have stories in my head. They circle around in there, demanding to be let out. And I think the time has come to pick up my pen again. I feel a bit rusty; so I'll be starting out with a few short stories and such. I figured that it would be better to bare my soul here, on the great wide world of the internet, where it is impossible to hide. Where I shall be held accountable and hopefully receive some constructive criticism and support. I certainly don't expect to become the next Stephanie Meyer. (oh please, no!) But I hope my stories entertain, and more importantly, make you think. Make you feel.
So here I go, dusting off my pen... Forgive me if I spill a little rust on the page?
-Sparrow
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