I can’t vouch for every writer throughout history, but I know for me, realizing I wanted to be a writer was a single moment, a single slice of time where the dots connected and it all clicked.
Let me rewind the clock a few years before my love of writing started so you can get a good picture of my relationship with books. Coming into third grade, the most peculiar thing happened to me. I forgot how to read. Like, all progress made in second grade was wiped from my hard drive—I came in at close to a first-grade level! So my teacher, Mrs. Watson, paid special attention to me and a few others that couldn’t read as well and put us into a reading booster program. During certain times of the day, I would be separated out and would follow along in a paper book as a tape (and I actually mean a real tape!) read aloud to me through headphones. It might seem like a simple solution, but it worked! During the second part of third grade, I also committed to reading a difficult book about the volcano Mt. St. Helens. It took me months to pour through it, but I did. I was so proud of myself!
By the next school year, I wasn’t behind—I was ahead of many people. In fifth grade, I was being separated out from the class to join an advanced reading group instead of to get special help. I fell head over heels in love with reading; I devoured books left and right. In fact, during fifth grade the school put on a school-wide reading competition they called Books and Beyond. I took second place in the whole school for most books read (based on minutes read). I would get up at 5:30 or 6 in the morning just to clock in extra time and I would read almost the entirety of the afternoons.
But in fifth grade, my other momentous achievement was penning a story. The assignment was something about creative writing—I don’t remember the details. But what I do recall is that I loved my story. I couldn’t have been prouder of my overly dramatic retelling of entering fifth grade: “The Horrors of C-Hall.” In my school, fifth and sixth grade were in a whole different hall than the rest of the school, so I talked about the trials and tribulations of having to experience C-Hall. Based on the story, I developed probably the first book series I ever created—a series about life in fifth grade, hyperbolize and dramatized to make it fun. And I very much intended to write and publish the book series by sixth grade, but I don’t think I ever even wrote another word.
The funny thing is, I found that story later. Around high school, I discovered the story that began my love of writing. When I wrote “The Horror of C-Hall” I realized that writing opened up a whole new world. Something clicked. My brother and I always had active imaginations, but only in crafting the story did I realized I could take what went on in my head and put it on paper to share it with the world! What possibilities! But as I said, I got the chance to read the story that started it all; to read my first creation in its original form.
And it stunk.
No really, it was absolutely terrible. Even for a fifth grader.
The entirety of the story—beginning, middle, and end—fit on a single piece of loose-leaf paper. And I mean just one side. Only five paragraphs made up the story, each paragraph clocking in at just three or four sentences each. I handwrote it, which was standard in the class, and managed to misspell almost every word (honestly my spelling still isn’t great). I even reached far into the corners of the Thesaurus to get some truly great adjectives, mainly the word “outlandish” which became almost a catchphrase for me until middle school. I recall my reasoning for using “outlandish” as a descriptor for anything strange, surprising, or out of the ordinary, because I could never remember how to spell “weird.” Was it e-i or i-e? I didn’t want to risk looking foolish—even though I managed to look foolish misspelling all the other words.
So the story that changed my life, that put me on a path to becoming a writer and author ultimately was trash. Pure garbage. Barely even counted as a story. It was truly an outlandish piece of work.
Yet there is a lesson here, I assure you. Where you begin ultimately doesn’t matter as much as where you end up. We grow, develop, improve, change, pivot out of our beginnings. In whatever hobby, and just life in general, we often start off not so great. But we can get better. Starting at the bottom just means there is lots of room to get better. And everyone, even the masters, can afford to get better.
I didn’t fall in love with writing because people praised me for it, or I got more friends, or because I calculated that it would be a steady source of income. No! I fell in love with writing because it’s fun and exciting and invigorating. There is beauty, in my opinion, to using human languages to challenge, teach, and entertain—but whatever the aim, I desire to use language to evoke a change in people. I love to spend my life bringing to life a story that hopefully brings life to others.
Even though “The Horrors of C-Hall” wasn’t the next great American novel, the experience of writing is what kickstarted a lifelong love affair with the written word. And for that, I’m thankful for the contributions of “The Horrors of C-Hall” to my life and my passion today. If I ever come across it again, I’ll be sure to pin it to the wall of my office and smile every time I see.
I guess now I have nowhere to go but up!
