A Fourth Grader Told Me I Could Be a Writer

WARNING: Some ranting. Proceed with the caution one gives an author in the wild.

I was thinking about this recently - where did writing first start for me? Don't know why. Maybe because, as of writing this, I just spent the last few weeks dropping insane (to me) amounts of money on things like writing courses, web domains, premium author memberships on Royal Road, Scapple (seriously, go check it out if you haven't), and ad campaigns. And there's so much more I realize I still want to spend money - an artist (because I can't draw shit), a master's degree, editing services, bills, clothes, car repairs, school supplies...

I could literally go on forever.

But then I thought to myself - why is investing in myself such a bad thing? There's this underlying fear that I'm spending money on useless ambitions. Like - I'm not worth the investment. Or maybe it's what I'm pursuing that's not worth it? I'm not sure.

Growing up, all I heard from the adults in my life was that writing was a useless profession. They'd always start out with, "It's great and you're great, but..."

"It's not sensible."

"It's got no value to real life."

"You won't make it as just an author."

Who says I wanted to be just an author?

Now, don't get me wrong - my family was and is very supportive. My mom - who I miss still - used to quietly smile as she watched me scribble on the pages of notebooks she spent her music teacher salary on just to watch me smile. And after she died, my father provided the financial stability and roof over my head as I attempted to raise my growing day job salary and still pursue my dreams of owning my own house someday. My siblings get a little stir crazy around me sometimes while I zip around in my own head and try my best to get my short attention span under control and out of hyperfixation. Despite that, they still let me rant to them on occasion about the characters who run off and do their own thing and the governmental decisions of fictional worlds as they deal with both economic distress and wartime.

I'm honestly surprised I haven't driven them crazy yet.

If I were to ask my sister A, she'd immediately say do it - spend the money. If I asked my sister L, she'd talk to me gently about considering all the options before helping me realize my best deal. If I asked my sister M, she'd laugh and hit the button for me. And if I asked my brother (he's the only brother I got, lol), he'd shrug and say do it. Not once would they tell me it's stupid or silly or selfish - all those scary "s" words.

I love them.

So why do I have such an aversion to investing in myself if everyone in my family would say yes?

My only guess is that it's because I feel like all those "s" words for pursuing a childhood dream. And it really was a childhood dream.

I was nine or ten. Ms. Lindberg was both my fourth and fifth grade teacher, so I can never remember which year it was this happened. Haha! She told us to write a story for class. I remember the story I came up with. Maybe one day I'll actually turn it into a real children's book.

It was about my brother - my hero at the time - who snuck into my room at night and shrank me down to miniature with him. He took me on a paper airplane ride and we used the currents of the fan to fly around the house.

The end of the story was what really got my teacher. In the story, I woke up back in my bed and thinking it was all just a dream - until it happened again.

That. Those four words - "...until it happened again." These were the words that opened my eyes to the power of words. My teacher praised it highly and even used it as an example of good writing and good endings to the class. I think she called that a twist ending because it was so unexpected. Do you know how amazing that feeling is when as a fourth/fifth grader I was lauded as the kind of author to create twists to their endings?

I couldn't get enough.

Later in the same years, I wrote an essay for my D.A.R.E. program (Drug Abuse Resistance Education; I think I may be giving away my age with that one). I threw in a flattering mention of my program teacher and wrote what I thought was a subpar essay. I thought my best friend, Emily, would for sure win that first place prize. She was an amazing writer even at that age. Better than me. At least, any time I read her essays and stories, that's what I thought.

You can imagine my surprise when I actually won.

Those were my formative years as an author, the years I was introduced to the idea that words could be manipulated and shaped and wielded like a sword.

And of course there was the love of escapism into fantasy worlds, but that's another rant for another time.

Seriously though - childhood dream. Childhood. I can't get it out of my head. I was a child when I learned what words could do and when I first decided I was going to be an author.

So why pursue something that a child decided?

Because.

Because I can.

Because I wanted to.

Because it was and still is extremely fun.

Because I feel at peace when put words to paper.

Because.

So, because I wanted to, here I am. And here you are. Reading my first rant, maybe even my stories. I'll invest in myself "because." And I will post my stories "because." And I'll build my archives "because." And I'll build my audience "because."

Because I'm worth it.