Blog 11B

Essay 2, Draft 1 - I was born a writer

From as young as I can remember, I made up stories and told them to anyone who would listen. There was no end to them. As soon as I could speak in paragraphs – three years old – I made up and told these stories. I loved it. I remember sitting on my grandmother’s lap in the front seat, with my grandfather driving and my mother in between telling them this ongoing story. There was no beginning, and there was no end. It didn’t even matter if they were listening. They had been talking, when all of a sudden my mother realized I was telling a story. She seemed surprised that I was so creative. My grandmother seemed to enjoy my story telling also.

When I was in the lower grades, I would make up songs and sing them to my younger brothers. I would make up the lyrics and the tunes. These were stories set to music. I loved this. I used to wonder if it was possible to run out of tunes. Would there ever be a time when there would be no more new melodies, I remember thinking. I also remember collaborating with my cousin and writing songs with her. What fun!

I remember the recognition I received in fourth grade for a story I wrote. We had to write a fiction composition. Well, I made up a story that I and my friends were making a snowman when the snowman started to move. I know a take-off from Frosty the Snowman. Only, this time the snowman didn’t come to life. It was only a lost pet bunny that jostled the snowman while surfacing from beneath it. My fourth grade teacher read it aloud to the class. She said it was excellent, and I felt so proud. It was very important to me to be a good writer and I believed I was well on my way.

I wrote my first book when I was in fourth grade. It was a novel. I made up characters, gave them personalities, and made up scenarios. I loved this. I had a toy typewriter so I used it to compose my book. I would balance it on the nightstand and type away.

I idealized Lois Lane, the savvy newspaper reporter for The Daily Planet. I saw myself as a metropolitan journalist. Others did not see me that way, however. I remember at the parent-teacher conference in eighth grade we were discussing high schools and I said I wanted college prep so I could become a journalist. However, this was in 1965 when the resurgence of feminism was only just beginning. Both my teacher and my mother said that I should take a commercial course to prepare myself to work in an office. I did. I was sure to take typing in high school and learn it well. Afterward, I did get a job as a typist at the phone company. I hated it - all of it. I hated the typing pool, I hated the corporate environment, and I hated the rigid office hours.

I saved my money and three years later quit my job and sent myself to college. I attended the local community college and took a liberal arts curriculum. I did very well and loved it. I had to quit after the first year because I needed to work to support myself. Too bad!

I tried college again when I was age 25 after being laid-off from my office job. This time I attended Pace University in lower Manhattan. I majored in English. Again, I did very well and again I loved it, but again, I had to support myself. I quit full-time study and continued part-time after work. I still enjoyed it, but I was tired. I also had moved to northwestern New Jersey which was about 60 miles from the college. Eventually, my energy and money ran out.

I then wrote for a local newspaper near where I lived in New Jersey. I would cover local meetings. I was not particularly interested in the subject matter, but I was glad to write. I loved seeing my name in print. I made a small scrap book of my articles.

My life demanded that I attend to other things. I worked as a legal secretary which paid the bills. This also gave me an opportunity to write, although it was not really the kind of writing I like to do. With regard to other occupations, I tried working at a library as well as financial counseling. I also looked into grief counseling, addictions counseling and getting ordained. None of these worked, and I believe I was not meant to do any of these things. I once heard a monk speak about becoming a monk. He said people would ask him how he arrived at this, and he would say that he had been “born a monk.” As soon as I heard this, I intuitively knew that I had been born a writer, although I really didn’t believe that I would have another opportunity to pursue this.

When it was time for my nephew to look at colleges, I encouraged him. I visited colleges with him and realized how much I missed pursuing my dream of writing. I looked into it and realized that I had the money and the time to attend the local community college. This college had a degree program for paralegal studies. As I had been working in private law offices for about 35 years, I thought if I go back to college, I would do best in paralegal courses. Well, I did especially well and graduated with honors. This was two years ago.

While pursuing this degree, I especially loved any opportunity that I had to write. I looked into transferring to a four-year college because if I did so well in paralegal studies maybe I would do well in the love of my life – writing. Well, I was right. I am again an honors student. I love what I do. I have been writing-away in all my courses, whether it was poetry, plays or fiction in my creative writing class, writing about literature, creative non-fiction or any research paper. I love to write. I now have credits that put me into my senior year, and I am looking at graduate schools. My nephew has since graduated. He is the first college graduate in the family, and I expect to be the second. Writing is the love of my life and I don’t intend to ever be stopped again for the simple reason that “I was born a writer.”