Confessions of The Scribe.

When is the right moment for one to embrace the label for what they do? The obvious answer is that if a person is actively doing one action every single day, then they are that. If someone dedicates time daily practicing the piano, then usually, that will make them a pianist. Even more so if they’re recognized for that action by the general public. If one practices the piano and eventually decides to do concerts, then eventually they will be recognized, by large, a pianist. I can grasp this idea when it comes to anyone and anything else. From hobbyists to professionals, whenever I’d see anyone claim their passions as a part of their identity and embrace the labels of it—it was a no brainer. Yeah, you create trinket dishes with air dry clay, so in my mind, you are definitely an artist. But for some reason and for quite some time in my life, I could not bring myself to say that I was a writer. There was a distance between myself and the title ‘Writer’, so vast that the natural act of it couldn’t bridge the gap in my head and heart. What’s funny about that is that there have been fewer periods in my life where I wasn’t scribbling in a journal or drafting a story for my own enjoyment.

The Child.

Truthfully speaking, writing has been a quiet companion throughout my life. When I was a kid, writing wasn’t only something I was good at in school. It was a way for me to express my childlike imagination without a care in the world. The best gifts to me were journals or diaries, where’d I build worlds or explore the inner parts of my own. Being able to turn to writing was a freedom that I adored. I could create characters, start a business plan, write letters to classmates, and just have an outlet.

I was still a talent when it came down to it, especially in school. One of my favorite memories is of a teacher submitting my short story to the local newspaper at the age of ten. I was honestly excited any time we had a chance to do something creative as students. I remember going home that evening after first hearing about the contest from my teacher. I didn’t even bother starting with the rest of the homework assignments and immediately got to work crafting the perfect Halloween story at my family dinner table. As perfect as it could get for a ten-year-old. It did eventually get in the paper, and I was proud of myself at that time for doing it. However, I still never seriously considered writing as a career. As a child, I just considered it as something fun that I was told I was good at. Besides there were more pressing matters to me at that time whenever I thought about my future career—like becoming a cheetah girl.

I also wasn’t alone in my family when it came to the love of writing and even books. Both of my parents curated an extensive library of shared books. My father enjoyed classic fantasy novels or modern action novel series. My mother enjoyed memoirs or novels that could easily be transformed to hits on the silver screen with the dramatic stories they held. My mother, who I consider to be a natural archivist of our family history, paid so much attention to detail in writing about what was going on in the world at the time of my birth right in my baby book. Her deep love of storytelling was passed down to her from generations prior before she eventually passed it onto my sibling and me.

Fast forward to the point of life where I can talk, walk, and build memory – I remember her writing poetry and working on a book inspired by her own life and experiences. I recall the moments of her telling me about the exhilarating, yet nerve-wracking feeling of performing her poetry for the first time in front of a live audience. She sat me down to listen to her read an excerpt of her own words. Enthralled by her glory, I grasped onto every word. It was moments like that where the seeds of inspiration were planted. Moments that led me to my first big decision in my tiny little life at that point. The decision that when I grow up, I want to be creative. Not necessarily a writer, but creative.

The Student.

In my teenage years, I was introduced to more advanced literature that was standard for what you’d learn in English courses. I learned about authors like Franz Kafka, Oscar Wilde, Henry David Thoreau, J.D. Salinger, and of course, William Shakespeare. We’d spend more time as students reading and discussing classics. Some might believe that this would be great inspiration to continue writing, but ultimately, I became more distant and indifferent with the hobby. Writing was simply a way to get a passing grade and move on. To hopefully get a scholarship. To complete a project. To get paid from a first job through blogging. In my downtimes from school, I didn’t focus on it at all. I barely even remembered the joy I got out of it as a child. Although in my deepest of hearts I respected it and would enjoy a young adult novel from time to time, I wasn’t in a rush to express my own thoughts in a long format.

The only way I truly wanted to do that was if I were screenwriting, because working in television and film was my personal pursuit. During that time, I majored in television production. Carefully, I studied with my peers what makes up a great show and how does the technical aspect of production bring to life the magic of the story that was scripted. I wanted to create things similar to what I’d been consuming all my life. Coming of age series or sitcoms. Films, even. I grew frustrated with the outcomes, though. What I failed to understand at the time was that there is more to creating the next big hit of a generation than just thinking about basic scenes and typing them. Understanding how to run an active production is not enough to show someone how to write a great story. There was still some cultivation that was needed. There was still more life to live before I could even understand what truly inspired me to come up with a great story.

The Drifter.

Transitioning from high school and into my extremely brief college years, I returned to journaling. There wasn’t any breakthrough that brought me to that point, I just picked the habit back up after buying a small one in a random CVS purchase. When I got that journal, I navigated that time of my life through writing down whatever feelings came up at the time. As you’d imagine, there were pages littered with hopes, losses, fears, and anything else you’d expect from a young woman experiencing her first shot at attending college or working her first corporate job full time. There was no style, there was no aim, and I didn’t even go back to writing scripts since I began to distance myself from that dream too. There was just a pen, the journal, and the need to release the inner workings inside of me.

Looking back on it now, I still didn’t believe I was a serious writer. Although at that point I had a taste of the experience, I was insecure in the fact that I couldn’t translate my grand ideas—these complex and intricate metaphors for my life—into any form worthwhile. With factors like excessive partying, alcoholism, and marijuana dependency, I wasn’t even sure at one point that I could translate myself or even take myself seriously. But I was still committed to insentiently documenting my daily life and thoughts despite that. Based on the questions I’d have about life at the time in my journal, I was introduced to the world of zines and began creating a series of zines briefly about my existential concerns. It was a new way of creating for me, and in hindsight, another way that the act of writing showed up for me in life without the commitment to the title.

After a while, I had a habit of throwing things away. With my first journal, I tossed it even though it wasn’t completed. I was full from those memories and feelings, so in an attempt to create distance from that time in my life, I got rid of it. I stopped creating zines altogether. I reached a point where I felt I was finished with the process. Quiet as kept, I also lost my faith in my ability to write well. Whenever I would look back at my journals or zines in the past, the writing was fragmented and janky, to say the least. So, even though journaling was a simple outlet for me to express myself and zine-making was another outlet for me to cultivate an idea into something, I still didn’t necessarily feel like my work reflected the quality I was aiming for. The process of taking my inner world and converting it into material was complex, tedious, and messy. Although I wasn’t actively pursuing being a serious writer, not being as good as I had always heard I’d been left me exhausted with it altogether. The real world and the real weight of the realization pushed me to wipe my slate clean and step away from it.

The Scribe.

With a fresh start, there was a new opportunity for things to grow. By my mid-twenties, I was ready to try again. I got into journaling yet again. This time, the journal was larger, and my intentions were to write out stories based on doodles from my sketchbook during my pause from writing. In the very first entry of the new journal, I even shared my desire to write but my awareness of the pressure I felt for not being ‘complete’. Complete meaning a put together, quality, real writer. It was a vulnerable thought I wrote about a lot in my journals, but what I believe the difference was between my early twenties and my mid-twenties the fact that I committed to the act of using my new journal to just write. Scribble any thought, write down whatever. Free of thought, free of rules. Just as a painter would free paint on a blank canvas.

This monthly journaling habit I had would eventually help me build more confidence in my skills as a writer to the point where I became comfortable writing publicly. There were so many great voices in online spaces, no matter the platform, that also inspired me to give writing a shot. I’d share articles and (attempt to) share stories. Things were actually not bad for once when it came to my relationship with writing. People actually responded to the things that I put out, they read it. That was amazing to me and I was really grateful for taking that step.

Despite that, I was struggling with holding down a stable job. Being a writer as a full-time career became a question that was difficult to even find time to answer or decide. I once again shut down my accounts on online platforms and took some time out to sort my life out. However, I didn’t throw writing away. I still continued to journal, created stories for fun, sought more information on how to develop my skills with writing as much as I could without an actual degree. I spent most of my time trying to find my place in the working world, while tinkering with my ability to communicate through the written word. I listened to other voices and stayed connected to writer communities in digital spaces, learning from their own stories with imposter syndrome. They taught me how to navigate real life and writer life, and ultimately taught me that there was no need to separate the two.

Today, I am in my late twenties. I can confidently say I am a writer, and I have always been. I believed deeply in the “separation” of my personal life and my life as a writer. In the last year, I spent time just dedicating myself to breaking that separation down. The separation of the two was what kept me insecure with the title. The separation between myself and other writers I enjoyed, I broke that down too, because it created this false belief that there was no way I could ever be taken as a serious writer.

The act of writing today is just as freeing as it was when I was a child. Just as complex as it was when I was a teenager. Just as nourishing as it was when I was a lost young adult. The hurdles in life and the dedication I put into everything else taught me to navigate my own personal hangups with my skills. The journey of coming to this point where I can finally identify with the title, was me committing to loving it again. When it comes to embracing the label of what you do, I understand now that the moment happens once you let it. Regardless of perfection, environment, or direction, the commitment to writing was more than enough for me to close the gap between who I am and who I desired to be.