FAQ: How Did You Become a Writer?
As a writer, I’m often asked by readers, friends, and family members how I became a writer. Or, similarly, how I realized that I am a writer. Before I respond, I always imagine the answer they anticipate:
Young Kate sits at the kitchen table and blows out eleven birthday candles. A thunderous pounding strikes the door, and it splinters into pieces. A shaggy giant emerges, carrying a quill and leatherbound journal. “Yer a writer, Kate!”
Please don’t think I’m being an asshole. I promise, I’m not.
My point is that “How did you become a writer?” is a loaded question. Sometimes, “non-creatives” want to know the magic secret that allows “creatives” to write, paint, sing, etc. (Psst… there is no secret. Anyone can make art!) Other times, the person asking the question simply wants to hear a good story. But it’s a difficult, if not impossible, story to tell.
Unlike fiction, reality rarely follows a clear narrative structure. There was no grand “call to adventure” moment, no “crossing the threshold” into my writerly hero’s journey. I became a writer through a series of small events, spread out across my life.
The Beginning
According to my mom (because mother knows best–no sarcasm), I showed an interest in stories from the beginning. Every night, she would read me a picture book, and I would be enraptured. As I learned to speak, I memorized the books and recited the stories for her. Later, I started adding my own embellishments. Eventually, when I grew out of bedtime stories, I spent my days “playing pretend” and making up tales all by myself.
What my mom won’t admit is that I received my language skills from her. As a teenager, my mom wrote lovely poetry and had a keen aptitude for learning French. On the other side, my dad has never cared for reading fiction, but he can spin a funny story over dinner or around a campfire with the best of them.
So, I owe some of my writing and storytelling skills to nature. But I nurtured them too.
In second grade, Mrs. Cram handed out hole-punched construction paper and yarn and instructed the class to write and bind picture books. My story featured a slave girl, who escaped from a plantation and followed the Big Dipper to freedom. (We’d recently learned about the Civil War.) Mrs. Cram praised my book and encouraged me to keep writing. At that point, my inner critic hadn’t evolved, so I smiled and wrote more.
In fifth grade, Mrs. Vopat gave the class thirty minutes each day for creative writing. In retrospect, I wonder if she wanted some quiet to catch up on grading or other administrative tasks. Regardless, I lived for this sacred block of time. I wrote a longer short story, starring my best friend and me as detectives, who rescued our crushes from an evil forest. I was too shy to read my story in front of the class (the inner critic had started to fester), but my best friend read it for me. Mrs. Vopat and my classmates encouraged me to keep writing, so I did.
The Fuzzy Middle
After that, the story structure disintegrates. I wrote silly stories in spiral notebooks to entertain myself during class. I wrote angsty poems about dumb boys and fearful diary entries about 9/11 in a password-protected word processor. I wrote self-insert Draco Malfoy fan fiction (and published it on the internet) the summer I broke my wrist. However, I didn’t have any more definitive, “life-shaping” moments.
Honestly, it’s all a blur in my mind. One minute, I’m taking the ACT exam and putting psychology or pre-law as my intended major. (Because everyone said writers don’t make money.) The next, I’m enrolling at Baker University as an English major, hellbent on preparing for a Master of Fine Arts degree. Instead, I ended up doing a different master’s… but that’s another ill-structured story.
I had success with writing in college. I earned top marks in my creative writing classes, presented my work at conferences, and even received a few publications and awards. Six months after graduation, I finally wrote my first novel. (Though, contrary to my expectations, this accomplishment did not vanquish my inner critic.) That novel became The Cogsmith’s Daughter (Desertera #1), I started independently publishing, and you likely know the rest.
The Truth
As I read this post back to myself, my fingers itch to delete it. I want to tell you a better story. A story where I pick up a pencil for the first time and feel an electric spark. A story where I have a burst of inspiration in the shower and stumble out, dripping wet, to write the idea on my bathroom mirror in lipstick. A story where I crack open my rib cage, pull out my heart, and see the word writer tattooed across its beating surface.
But that would perpetuate the myth of creativity being exclusive to certain special people. It would also discredit all the hard work I, and other creatives, put into our writing. Worst of all, it would be disingenuous. And I won’t lie to you.
The simple questions and answers are:
How did you become a writer?
Nature. Bedtime stories. Playing pretending. Caring mentors. An academic degree. And lots and lots and lots of practice.
How did you realize you are a writer?
My parents, teachers, and classmates told me so. Over time, I turned to writing for entertainment, to process my emotions, and to escape reality. When you hear something enough times, and do it enough times, you start to believe it.
However satisfying or dissatisfying, that’s how it happened.
I hope you’ll share how you became you, whatever that might be, in the comments.
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