The assignment was to examine my attitude towards writing over the years. Can you tell me if I accomplished my goal?
I've been considered by others to be a writer since before I even went to kindergarten. They've considered me as such. Myself? Not so much. I write, yes. But what do I write? Everything. All genres of prose, angsty teenage poetry, song lyrics, and fanfiction. Most of which will never again see the light of day, but maybe the Internet screen where I can hide behind a name people don't know.
I first began writing fanfiction before I ever knew what that was. I would see cartoons and write stories about the characters, draw illustrations, and staple them into a book. I got praised from my mother for being “such a creative kidâ€Â. It fed fuel to the fire. I would get praised for doing something I liked, for something I was good at. What a new concept.
I went to a dinky private church school until sixth grade. I continued writing. Less pictures, more words, but they all ended up stapled together and hidden in the classroom bookshelf. Other kids would go and read them in secret and then write their own books, often copying movies, while mine remained original. My mother received many calls during my last few years at that school from the teacher, complaining that I wasn't doing homework. I would only read and write. My writing was no longer considered creative or cute.
Seventh grade led to a new area of my writing for me. I fell back in love with fanfiction, using it as a vehicle to keep my writing and my voice sharp while I did not have the time to concentrate on my original work. My teacher in middle school allowed me to read my writing for the class and pass it in to him. He would edit and comment on my stories, though he said my poetry was too angsty. But I had never before had a teacher who actually tried to help me become a better writer, who thought it was something worth fostering. The concept of actually creating a career in writing was introduced to me.
I went to boarding school freshman and sophomore year where I met my English teacher. She helped me with one of my hardest stories. Over and over I rewrote it and she would read it. Clear this up, explain that, expand on that, she would tell me. And I would. Where normally I would tell a teacher to shove off, I listened to her, because I could keep my own ideas and style. She helped foster it to bloom instead of trying to mold it. I worked for her sophomore year, editing the other grade's papers. It gave me the knowledge to better find my own mistakes, to learn how to clean up my own work.
But how are you not a writer? Because only two people do I show my work to, my former English teacher, and a writer friend. Strangers can see my work online. I still write fanfiction, in fact, that is mostly what I write now. I no longer wish to make a career of my hobby. I don't want praise or a pat on the head for something I enjoy doing. I don't want to cheapen my words with money.
My writing sits in a shoe box in my closet. I have a mother who hates the idea that I still waste my time. She would probably have a coronary because of all the “dirty words†that have come into my writing over the years. I have had teachers stomp over my writing because it does not model Pride and Prejudice and does not have the form or style they want. I still write all the time. I consider writing more important than anything else. My writing is my soul, telling truths I will never speak allowed. I will not allow anyone else to dissect me for entertainment.
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