Ink and Insights: Embracing Myself as a Writer

I wrote a poem in the 6^th grade that amazed and intrigued my teachers, it was called “Coldness.” The poem was about the pain we feel inside of us. I compared the pain to a coldness inside our bones that can only be warmed with a hot bath. I wrote this poem in the 6^th grade—I was eleven. It was then that I began to realize that I am a writer. Writing is my bliss (think Joseph Campbell), but someone bound to write may not have an inherent talent for writing; even if you have a talent, talent alone is seldom enough. You have to feel the desire to be better tomorrow than you are today. I have a passion for writing, and, for a long time, I hoped passion was enough for me to succeed, but I was wrong. It took me years to recognize that I wasn’t applying the effort I needed to be a better writer, let alone relearn the confidence to admit that I needed to make the effort and pursue it.

          I’ve had a strange relationship with writing throughout my life. As a child, I was led to believe that writing wasn’t a realistic profession. I was told that although writing might be an enjoyable hobby it could never be something that would support me or my family. My parents told me this and I believed it, I had no reason not to. I was told often and since I was very young that I couldn’t do something. At first, your child's brain asks “Why?” but eventually, you start to believe it, and worse even you start to accept it. The thing though is that we don’t choose what we love. I practically ran away from home when I was twenty: dropped out of school, quit my job(s), packed my car, and disappeared into the night. And my writing followed me. My mind in one way or another was focused, always on writing, if I wasn’t actively writing I was exhaustively thinking about writing, and in contradiction with myself and my repressed acceptance that I would never be a writer.  

I was even writing professionally and still faced internal conflict about whether it was sensible. Shortly after leaving home, I worked as a contributing writer for the Idaho Falls Magazine in Idaho Falls, Idaho. I was querying and publishing articles, reviews, and stories in journals and magazines. I worked as a columnist and staff writer for the Hill Country Weekly Newspaper in Boerne, Texas, and still, I had a hard time telling people that I was a writer. I felt like a fraud. I never studied writing, as I was learning to accept that writing wasn’t a practical option for me as a profession. I lost interest in it, so I never studied or developed myself as a writer. I also couldn’t stop writing. For the Hill Country Weekly Newspaper, I wrote several cover stories, at least one editorial a week and often more, a weekly column, and one particular story was so popular the newspaper had to go into additional printings for the first time in the history of the paper—the title is “Boerne, Texas Gone Forever.”

I wrote articles about social interactions, eminent domain, internal crime rings, and the unexpected growth of Boerne, and I never truly believed in myself or my writing. I remember thinking if a writer that I admired read anything I'd written, I would be ashamed. Writing for the newspaper was also the happiest I was, professionally. I used to work out of a now-defunct coffeehouse, Electric Coffee, sitting always on the same stool at the bar at the back of the café. People could expect to find me there. Sitting in front of my laptop, a yellow college-ruled notepad folded open and on top of itself, a few crumpled pieces of paper strewn about the metal countertop, venue music schedules, band info, a plate with a half-eaten scone, and a never-ending mug of coffee. I felt like I was sitting there pretending to write all day, and that I had everyone fooled.

Moreover, while I struggled to call myself a writer, I struggled more to call myself a journalist. I don’t like journalism. There isn’t a lot of personal freedom or creativity in journalism, and I don’t want to write about things I have no interest in. The Hill Country Weekly Newspaper allowed me more artistic freedom than most newspapers. There was one article I wrote titled, “Our Social Jungle,” about the changing dynamics of social interactions from an intrapersonal behavior perspective. I talked to people about their worldviews, how they communicate with others, how others communicate with them if there were disconnects between how they presented themselves and how others saw them. I never interviewed people and most of what I wrote for the newspaper developed similarly. One afternoon my publisher came to me with an assignment. The local police force aided in the bust of an international crime ring. There were people stealing cars from San Antonio parking lots, and the surrounding areas (including Boerne), and having them shipped to Mexico.

I had no interest whatsoever in the story. I was asked to interview people: police detectives, families, and victims, and I had no idea what to ask these people. Sitting across from them, some angry or disheartened because a vehicle was stolen, cops patting themselves on the back for making arrests. The only question lingering in the back of my mind throughout was, “What’s your favorite color?” Instead, I relied on a series of questions I had pieced together with Google. I was miserable throughout the entire process. It was the worst story I wrote for the Weekly, the story was that week's cover story. Writing the story helped me to realize that not only was I not happy with my writing, but I wasn’t happy with this type of writing.

          I lost interest in writing for the paper. I stopped writing for the paper and the newspaper’s publisher, out of spite, removed my stories from the newspaper website and any mention of my name, but I still have the hardcopies KAM, so I guess the jokes on you. My experience writing for the Hill Country Weekly Newspaper was mostly good, and in the wake of the experience I slowly started to accept that I was more than capable of making writing a proper profession. I have since put considerable effort into the study of writing, developed myself as a writer, and explored the type of writing I want to do. I feel more comfortable now calling myself a writer.