I have been a writer my whole life but didn’t really figure it out until I was seventeen and didn’t admit to it until, well, now. It was something I loved to do and I couldn’t really fathom having it be my career (and sometimes I still can’t). My first published piece was a poem about Pablo Picasso’s ‘Guernica’ in a literary magazine called La Chispa. A year later, at sixteen, I won a state-wide journalism competition in New Mexico. I can’t remember what I wrote about but I do remember writing it and thinking that the judges were going to absolutely HATE it. Maybe you can relate, but it still surprises me when people don’t hate my work! Anyway, next I wrote my college entrance essay on my repulsion for math and called it ‘Euclid the Antichrist’ (sorry if that is offensive).
For some reason they let me into college and I stayed as far away from writing as I possibly could. I entered business school and wrote about serious things like management and statistics. Each written assignment made me feel completely and utterly empty and now, I know why. I was afraid of my own voice. More than afraid, actually. I was completely denying it.
Well, like any good calling, writing kept sneaking into my days. In flew under my radar in the form of lengthy letters, overly detailed shopping lists and penny thoughts (ideas you have that you scribble into the margins of notebooks, textbooks and calendars). “You’re such a wonderful writer!” My parents would say. Naturally, I had to ignore this entirely because they were my parents and I was still pretty convinced that they were wrong about everything.
Well, Mom and Dad, as much as it pains me to say it, you may not have been wrong about everything. The reason for this lengthy rambling about my spotty past is to say that I get it and I am here for you. I am actually working on a new project called OpenSpace which gives closet-creators a chance to exercise their creative muscle in a not-so-scary setting. Check it out here if you are interested!
Sometimes for fun I dip into the past and finger through one of my old journals. The summation of most of my musings was WHAT THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO DO WITH MY LIFE? I chuckle at the irony because in order to express that written sentiment I had to do exactly what I was supposed to do with my life: write. So here I am, writing things for you to read. After writing my last post, I realized that the right answer is usually the simplest one. I am so grateful for my readers and supporters because this blog has single-handedly defined my fate as a writer and given me the confidence to carry on. I would like to finish this off with one of my favorite writing exercises, the six-word memoir. I think I have finally figured mine out:
It was right under my nose.
Thank you for reading! What’s your six-word memoir?