I know why I’m here. My parents copulated and, well… nature kept on moving.
That doesn’t answer the why… it answers the how. Let’s get to why.
The answer to these questions evolves with each stage of my life.
I was writing in my journal… but that wasn’t “writing,” writing. Only dawdle-thoughts in pastel-colored books.
When I was in kindergarten, my biggest goal was to graduate from the 8th grade. When I became a high school freshman, the top two goals became college acceptance and 12th grade graduation. As a college freshman, the goals were were jobs and putting out quality work, exploring and applying for internships, studying and passing tests, taking inventories to know which careers better suit my personality, learning to roller skate backwards, keeping up with my studies, all of this with graduation as the end goal for that pathway.
During that time, I had always wanted to be a writer. I mean, I was writing in my journal throughout college, but that wasn’t “writing,” writing. Only dawdle-thoughts in pastel-colored books.
Here’s a confession. It’s taken me years to accept that my penchant for scrawling notes and story ideas on scraps of paper, keeping small spiral notebooks of ideas, scrawling in journals, and these days, using various apps to store ideas on electronic devices might actually mean something. It’s a sign there’s no shortage of ideas about what to write. However, all those scribblings will be a whole heap of nothing if I don’t follow through by cobbling then crafting these ideas into complete works. It doesn’t matter if they’re blog posts, freelance magazine articles, extra projects for work, or complete books. I am here to think, write, dream, write, establish goals, and diligently work at them to and through fruition.
At work, I have the privilege of telling other people’s stories, which I deeply enjoy. It’s a key part of my life. Sometimes these stories are gleeful, other times, downright sad. But these experiences are important to share. In addition to telling other folks’ stories, I’m also meant to write my own story, in my own voice.
Discovering the deep
Speaking of voice, when I was a little girl, I spent lots of time tinkering around with one of my dad’s tape recorders. The mono, black recorder with the little orange rectangle that users had to depress in order to capture audio. That old school thing. I remember the first time I experimented with it, and recorded myself talking and singing made-up ditties. When it was playback time, imagine my horror when I didn’t sound like some of the high-pitched voices that other little girls at school or on television released from their larynxes.
“You sound like a boy,” I thought, extremely disappointed with reality.
Fast forward to seventh or eighth grade, when I got the first random compliment for my speaking voice. Jump ahead to college, and my boy-sounding voice (coupled with that kind lady’s random compliment which buoyed my confidence) helped land me a job at the campus radio station. Fast forward past more jobs in radio, and I’ve learned to be thankful for both my writing and speaking voices. Even if some poor souls mistake me for a man over the phone. It’s alright. Still thankful.