I remember the first time my third grade teacher read my work. She was shocked at the creativity and ingenuity of my writing. My penmanship wasn’t the best and let’s be honest, my grammar wasn’t either but creativity is something to be cherished. When my mom came to pick me up, my teacher spoke with her about my work. Even at such a young age, I felt an overwhelming sense of pride in my writing. My parents were proud, my teacher was proud, but most importantly, I was proud.
Being a writer is difficult. It’s something I didn’t take into account when I decided to continue while in third grade. From then until college, I wrote all kinds of fiction, but nobody ever saw it. My first creative writing class, I was a nervous wreck because we had to read aloud our stories and then the rest of the class would comment. Public speaking doesn’t spook me–heck I was in jazz band and theater for crying out loud! Exposing my story–my baby–to them was the problem.
I needn’t have worried, though. They loved it.
the four years of my college career, I grew more confident in my writing. I wrote stories for my creative writing minor and tried to work in as much creative writing as I could into classes for my bachelor’s degree.
One assignment in particular sticks out. In my literature class we had to write a total of thirty pages. The professor gave us a list of options we could choose. On that list was an option to recreate a piece of literature we read in the class.
I chose Beowulf and it was the most fun I had. The professor loved it and asked if he could use it as an example with other professors and future classes.
The confidence I had back in third grade returned. however, it didn’t last long.
Rejection after rejection from publishing houses on multiple novels and short stories began to crush my spirits of ever becoming published. It took blood, sweat, tears, and pages upon pages of editing, but in January 2016 I a response I always dreamed of–my novel was accepted. Again, I was proud and confident of my work–work I’ve tried so hard to get out there and read. It was like all those years ago when I found out I could write fiction. Just a few months ago what I always believed I could do–I finally did.
Until then, life’s full of opportunities you never even dreamed of,