A Brief Introduction

Hey, y’all.

My name is Meredith, and I am not southern. Not even close. And, until I’m hit with a horrible, crushing sense of self-doubt, I’m going to call myself a writer.

I’ve always felt that the word is used too liberally. Writer. I mean, basically anyone who forms sentences on a piece of paper is a writer. It doesn’t necessarily say anything about story-telling or skill or talent. If I had a dollar for every thirteen year old writing fanfic in their basement, claiming to anyone who’ll listen that they’re a writer, I’d have enough dollars to repair the damage caused by repeatedly slamming my head into my desk.

It’s not just that I question the specialness of the word that makes me resistant to call myself a writer. No, it’s more of a finality thing.

You see, I’m in a bit of an identity crisis.

I’ve been writing my entire life. I know people (writers) say that all the time, but in my case, it’s actually true. When I was in second grade, I wrote what I was sure would be my first bestseller. (Note that I say “first” because, at eight, astronauts and authors and mermaids still seem like viable career options. I’d yet to have that crushing realization that I wasn’t the only girl dreaming of being a writer, or that I’d never grow gills.) The story, titled “The Haunted Toy Shop,” centers on sassy and fearless Dawn. It’s Halloween night, and a little girl on a scooter triple-dog dares Dawn to enter—what else?—a haunted toy shop. Dawn is never seen again. The end.

I’ll admit, the logistics behind the story are shaky. My explanation of the haunting doesn’t exceed “just because” territory, although there is brief mention of a deadly fire. A deadly fire that occurred when the shop was empty. And, okay, maybe Dawn’s stream-of-consciousness upon her death (“There were bright green lights, and I think I saw a witch”) was a little far-fetched. But surely there was still symbolism in the piece, still material to analyze. Maybe the nameless girl on the scooter is a representation of something far greater, or maybe Dawn’s plight is really a social critique. Or maybe I had a vivid imagination, and this is all I knew.        

Diction, characterization, even plot—I wasn’t aware these things existed. I don’t mean to say that “A Haunted Toy Shop” really could’ve turned into some massive success if I had been some sort of literary prodigy, but I barely knew my way around a sentence. Also, I’m pretty sure I stole my storyline from an old episode of Arthur. But I could barely practice piano without having a fit—wasting my precious time on learning how to write when I could be beading friendship bracelets was out of the question.      
Enter School of the Arts. From seventh grade until senior year, I attended SOTA, a performing arts school where every student was required to declare a “major” — mine was creative writing. Every single day for those six years, I was forced to write in every genre there is, forced to “hone my craft” in the most pretentious way possible. Still, I wasn’t a writer. Not even close.

I mean, sure, I like writing. But I hate it more than I like it. It’s frustrating and irritating and makes me cry a lot, but I know I couldn’t live without it. There is no better way to verbalize the things I need to say than through writing.

And I think I’ve always had that idea in the back of my mind, “Well, maybe I can be a writer.” But I was never committed. It seemed too naive, too beyond the realm of any reality I could possibly encounter. After much deliberation, I decided to attend college for English and rhetorical writing, two majors I figured would lend themselves to a career in publishing, preferably as an editor. That way, I’d still be involved with writing, but wouldn’t actually be a writer.

I was happy with this at first. Totally fine with it. But now I’m not so sure.

Recently, I was asked to participate in a creative nonfiction reading at my school. I read a piece I wrote about my grandmother’s Alzheimer’s and ended up sobbing my way through the entire essay. I could barely compose myself—something about reading my work out loud, knowing that these words, this story, belonged to me, was one of the single most emotional moments of my life. And when I looked up, bleary-eyed, after I finished the last sentence, everyone else in the room was crying, too.
This moment sparked something inside of me, something I didn’t even know was there. Suddenly, I don’t want to be an editor. I’m not sure I ever did. Suddenly, it seems like a cop out, and I’ve been asking myself endlessly, “What if I really was a writer?”

So, today, that’s what I am. A writer.

That may change tomorrow, or next week, or months from now.

But if I don’t at least try now, how will I ever know?