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WHY
I WRITE:
ONE
WRITER'S STORY
by Susan
Taylor Brown
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If someone had told
me back in the 7th grade that I'd grow up to be a writer, I would have
laughed. See, I knew all about writers. Writers were complex and
talented people we studied in school. Writers usually lived in far-off
places. And most of all, in my mind, writers were special, and I didn't
feel special. I was just a lonely kid who talked to myself about places
that didn't exist and people that no one else could see.
It wasn't that I
didn't want to be a writer. I did. Desperately so. But I couldn't admit
my desire to write to anyone but myself. I couldn't leave myself open
to the criticism of friends and family and anyone else who might
overhear my dreams.
And I was scared.
Ever so scared of so many things. Of being different. Of not having any
friends. Of not being good enough or pretty enough or smart enough. You
name it, and I was probably afraid of it. I tried to hide it, holding
my fears inside until they started to eat at me, truly, giving me
anxiety attacks and constant stomach pains.
As a child I was
terrified to go to sleep at night. After my mom tucked me in, I would
lie awake, afraid to go to sleep. My vivid imagination conjured up all
sorts of terrible things that might happen.
Was there a monster
under my bed?
Maybe a dragon was
hiding in my closet.
What was that noise
I heard outside?
What if . .
.?
I always seemed to
imagine scary things, like monsters coming out of the light fixture
over my bed, and me tucked in too tight to be able to get away. I tried
to come up with happier thoughts.
What if I won a
medal in a skating competition?
What if my mom
bought me a new horse?
What if I was the
long-lost daughter of someone famous, like a movie star?
Soon the game of
“What If” became my friend. As I tried to fall asleep at night I began
to rewrite my favorite television shows, always making myself the
long-lost daughter or sister of the star. As I got older, I learned to
transfer the stories in my head to a blank sheet of paper, and my
addiction to words became a daily habit. If I wasn't writing, then I
was reading.
The more I read,
the more I wrote — sometimes a poem, maybe a short story or a character
sketch. Sometimes it was only a few lines scribbled on the back of a
napkin to help me remember how I was feeling at a particular moment.
Writing down my thoughts seemed to help the good times feel even better
and the bad times not hurt so much. So I wrote and I wrote and I wrote.
But the more I wrote, the less I fit in with the other kids. No one
else heard voices in their head like I did. No one else saw pictures in
their mind of faraway places. I didn't know anyone who would rather
write about an adventure instead of watching one on TV.
I'm not like other
kids, I thought. I'm strange. So I pushed my writing aside and tried to
act like I thought I was supposed to. I went roller skating, rode my
horse, took dance and piano lessons. I joined all the right clubs at
school, but I never really belonged. I was trying to do the things I
thought normal kids did. I still wanted to write. But I wanted to
belong even more.
It wasn't until I
had graduated from high school and was pushing a baby carriage around
the block that a friend helped me understand the facts — who I was and
what I wanted to do with my life were up to me. I had two children, a
hard-working husband, a house in the country and I was able to stay
home with my kids. By today's standards, I had it all, but I felt
continually restless and unhappy. Denying your dreams can do that to
you. During a visit, my friend asked, "If you could do anything you
wanted, if you didn't have to worry about grocery shopping or paying
the bills or cleaning the bathroom, what would you do all day? "
I guess my dream
was closer to the surface than I realized. Without thinking I blurted
out, "I'd write stories."
"Well, if that's
what you want to do, why aren't you doing it?"
I thought it over
and realized she was right. There was no reason for me not to follow my
dream. I dug out all my treasured notebooks and scraps of paper. I read
and reread what I thought were the world's greatest stories. I didn't
have a clue what to do with them. I started to read books about
writing, I took classes, and I studied the business. I learned that all
those stories I had once found so magnificent weren't all that great
after all. So I studied some more and I wrote some more. Every day my
writing got a little better. I learned how to type, how to structure a
story, and how to market it. And most of all, I learned about
rejections slips.
For years I had a
sign in my office that said, “Things Take Time.” I kept it there to
remind me that nothing good ever comes without hard work.
I didn't sell the
first story I ever wrote — or the second or the third. In fact, it took
several years before I sold anything at all. It took even longer before
I saw my first byline. And though my work continued to be rejected, it
never occurred to me that I should quit writing just because I wasn't
getting paid for it. The dream, finally allowed to surface, had become
an obsession and a way of life for me, as necessary to my survival as
breathing, eating, and sleeping.
I didn't just want
to write, I had to write.
I had to write a
poem about the way I felt when my grandfather died.
I had to write a
story about the day I found the picture of my father — a father I have
never met.
I have to write
because with every book, story, and poem, I learn a little bit more
about myself. And the more I learn about myself, the more I like me and
the person I've become. That's what keeps me going with my writing,
even when books I write don't sell. I love learning about who I am.
Each new discovery about myself is like a present waiting for me to
open it. Now that I've stopped hiding from myself, I'm a lot happier,
and a lot healthier, too.
When I was 12 years
old, I wrote:
I live in constant
fear of being discovered.
Fear of someone
finding out that I'm just me, and nobody else.
At that time I was
filled with too much insecurity to follow my dreams, too afraid of
being different, and too much of a skeptic to believe that just being
me would be enough. Now I know better.
Now I know that if
you have a dream in life that is interesting and challenging you have
to follow it. You can't live your life doing things that make other
people happy unless they're also the things that make you happy. And if
you don't fit into someone else's idea of what you should be, then
maybe it's because you have your own ideas, and that's okay too.
Dare to dream. Dare
to reach for the stars, and beyond.
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