Permission to call yourself a writer
Do you remember the first time you considered yourself a writer? Or, maybe I should ask, when did you first allow yourself to call yourself a writer?
When I look back over the years since I started stringing words together, my first inkling that I might be onto something happened when I was about seven. I was playing with my older sister’s tape recorder, and I recorded a little song I created. By song, I mean one verse.
That is my first memory of getting noticed and praised for my writing. And I loved it.
But writing children’s songs almost immediately gave way to running through sprinklers or immersing myself in the glamourous but imaginary world of Barbie and friends.
Then in the sixth grade, after reading a poem I had thrown together on the subject of time and its many purposes in the human experience, my teacher looked positively awestruck and congratulated me on writing something so profound. I thanked her and waited for her to lurk over someone else’s shoulder before finding the dictionary to look up the word profound.
Then in high school, I excelled in English and any class that required essays. I loved writing essays. I wrote them well, and I knew it. You’ll have to pardon me if it sounds like I’m boasting, but I really had no other talent, and I can assure you that, at the time, I did not see essay writing as a valuable asset. I would have much rather been known for being fun, cute, popular, athletic, or even musical. Those were qualities held in far higher currency among my peers.
Of course, it made sense for me to go on to study English Literature. While at university, I dared to answer a call from the university’s communications department looking for student writers for its alumni magazine. I don’t use the word dare lightly here. This was my first (of many more to come) experience of imposter syndrome. But I brought some samples of my writing – academic essays, what else.
I got the job!
My first assignment was a profile of an alum of the university who had garnered recognition for her award-winning garden. I interviewed her in her home and garden. She described her approach to gardening to me in a way I remember now, more than 20 years later. In gardening, we paint with colours, textures, shrubs, trees, grasses, and flowers, just as writers like you, you paint with words.
She had no idea she was my first interviewee, my first story. She assumed I was a writer because the university had sent me to interview her and write her profile. Therefore, as far as she was concerned, I was a writer.
I have never stopped writing. I studied Journalism and completed a Master of Arts in English, my final project being a collection of eco-poetry.
What would it mean to you if you started calling yourself a writer?
