Like
a lot of little girls, I dreamed of being a school teacher one day.
Unlike them, I also envisioned myself as a Russian ballerina and an
over-the-road trucker. (There’s a bed in the truck, so you’re
essentially camping for a living, hands-down the coolest job.)
In
high school, I came to my senses and decided to be a writer. This was
by far my most challenging goal. I’m not saying teaching is easy, but
you start by getting a license, which is at least straightforward.
Russian ballerina? Either you’re Russian, or you’re not. Over-the-road
trucker also requires a test and license, so you pass and get in or fail
and move on.
Becoming
a writer is imprecise. There are courses in writing and degrees in
English; someone can teach you to spell and keep your participles from
dangling in public. However, I know of no test to qualify a writer. I
guess you could judge how many people like your work, but what’s the
magic number? (Subtract Mom and Grandma; they’d read the back of a
cereal box if you said you wrote it.) In the end, I supposed I’d just
wake up one day and know I made it.
At
the outset, you might not have liked my work. The poetry I handed in as
a freshman was predictable and a little weepy, and my sophomore essay
about the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge, preachy. My senior paper on
fossil fuels got better, and then I won the right to give a speech at
graduation. Everyone in senior English wrote an essay, and we all voted
who should get the honor of sharing it at commencement. Competition was
stiff, but I came out on top. (Not something you could say for any of my
athletic endeavors of the same period.)
I
departed high school with a note from Mrs. Collins, my senior English
teacher. She wrote, “You have a gift — writing! I expect to see your
published works soon! Keep working hard.”
Then
college happened. I met classmates whose writing talent was so abundant
it felt gratuitous. I dropped my first English course after one class,
scared out of my mind, and took environmental studies courses where I
felt more at ease. Even working at the college newspaper, I mostly
checked others’ work for errors. I graduated with a bachelor’s degree in
communication, of which I was proud. But I didn’t think it would open
the door to being a writer, maybe unsigned public relations stories if I
were lucky.
Then
life happened. I wrote unsigned public relations stories for a year and
liked it anyway since they promoted a nonprofit in which I believed. I
got married and moved to a place where I wasn’t sure I’d get a full-time
job in anything, let alone in writing. I answered phone calls from
disgruntled candy consumers for five months before being plucked from my
misery by the publisher of one Jackson County Pilot.
Now
I’m a writer, and people buy my stuff. I even won two awards — best
arts and entertainment story and second-best business story among
same-sized newspapers in Minnesota, according to the Minnesota Newspaper
Association.
With that first-place plaque in hand, I suddenly woke up and knew I made it.
I
believe a thank-you is in order, to Mrs. Collins, who predicted all
those years before what it took an entire association of people to make
me realize: I can write if I keep working hard.
This column appeared in the Jan. 31 Jackson County Pilot as "Waking up and realizing dream of writing came true after all." Read all my columns in their entirety on the Jackson County Pilot website.
P.S. Blog title is a book title - read it!
