The Making of a Writer

Why I’m Writing This

I’ve been thinking a lot about why we write. What drives us to put our thoughts into words, to shape stories from our experiences, to send pieces of ourselves into the world?

Since I started sharing my work, I’ve been reading the incredible stories of other authors—each one a glimpse into a mind, a life, a journey. And it makes me wonder: What’s their why? What moment, what experience, what need brought them here?

So, in the spirit of sharing, here’s mine.

This is the story of how I became a writer, how I lost it, how I found it again.

And if you have a story, I’d love to hear it too.

The Early Years (Birth–7)

My mother, in her ever-urgent quest for self-aggrandizing glory, saw Searching for Bobby Fischer and Home Alone and decided that children should earn their keep. Thus began my training. For what, I have no idea. I was paraded through spelling bees, dance recitals, and math drills like some kind of prodigy-in-the-making. My homework was regularly coated in tears and snot—a viscous blend of stress and premature existential dread.

At six, I was tested for the prestigious Stewart Gifted Center. They rejected me. Not mature enough, they said. Thanks, lady—now hand me a damn lollipop.

The Gifted Years (7–12)

I finally got into the gifted program, and suddenly, I was exactly what my parents had ordered: blonde-haired, blue-eyed, reading at a 12th-grade level, and casually discussing astrophysics at dinner. Straight A’s or civil war—those were the terms of my existence.

Love was technically in the air, though mostly in a sad, drunken, rage-fueled way. Also, in a can’t-put-my-finger-on-it Woody Allen kind of way.

I showed early signs of being a writer. My first-grade teacher nearly wept over a story I wrote about monsters with toenails made of candy canes. The details are fantastic, she said, eyes watering. My mother, ever the beacon of encouragement, leaned in and whispered, She needs Prozac. Because, clearly, being moved by a child’s creativity was a medical condition.

The Awkward Years (12–18)

Puberty hit. My blonde hair darkened. My mother, apparently disgusted by her own creation, now resented the very things she had instilled in me. The fact that I read Crichton, King, and Rice at ten was no longer impressive—it was evidence that something was wrong with me.

Summers were spent sweating over early attempts at writing a novel, only to be screamed at to go outside like a normal kid. But I wasn’t normal. By puberty, I had endured every kind of abuse you could imagine, and to add insult to injury, I was smart enough to know it.

I plotted my escape. Once, I tried to bribe a kid with $100 to drive me to California. My master plan? A box of hair dye and a desperate wish to leave my life behind.

The Burnout Years (18–Now)

Like many so-called wayward women, I was lured into adulthood by a very attractive older boyfriend (six years my senior). We were both Puerto Rican-Irish mutts, raised in military culture, shaped by strict discipline, high expectations, and an unspoken rule that survival meant success. He was a great dancer, charismatic, and—unlike me—raised with a strong sense of culture and family. The difference? His parents never expected intellectual greatness. Mine did. It was a recipe for disaster.

I got pregnant. My son (now 18) became my world. I raised him mostly alone while trying to prove myself to…everyone. I was going to be the best single young mom, college student, entrepreneur, no-husband-needed-I-can-do-it-all person you’d ever met. I got straight A’s. I poured myself into my studies, devouring Whitman, Jackson, Capote. I waxed eternal about Palahniuk and Bradbury. And yes, I indulged in some quality historical smut along the way.

To many, I was an inspiration—a sunny train of relentless ambition. But despite my hard work, I could never quite get ahead in an unraveling economy.

No matter how successful I became, I was always just surviving. I made over fifty grand a year—an amount that would have made us wildly comfortable in the ’90s—but in this economy? We lived in shitty apartments and room shares, barely scraping by. I had little to show for all my hard work. I could hustle, reinvent myself, climb whatever ladder I was put in front of, and still, it was never enough.

The Darkest Years

Life itself was unraveling. I survived failed relationships, a failed marriage, and heartbreak that left scars. I loved hard and left harder, constantly trying to find a place where I could just be.

And then there was the assault.

I was sexually assaulted. And I did what so many survivors do—I carried it. Silently. Alone. Until it turned into something too heavy, too sharp, too unbearable. I spiraled into bouts of depression and suicidal ideation, waking up some mornings wishing I hadn’t.

Still, I kept going. I became a top stylist, worked on sets, studied for my master’s degree in education, worked in marketing, and even started a few businesses (unsuccessfully, but hey, I tried). I kept moving, kept striving, kept reinventing myself. But I never quite felt like I was doing the thing I was meant to do.

Then, one day, I read an article about Jane Austen. She wrote because it was all she could do—as a woman in her era, her writing was a means of survival. And something clicked. I discovered Vocal and asked myself:

What if I wrote like my life depended on it?

Now

And that’s what you see now.

A woman with her nose to the grindstone. A writer with something to say. A gifted kid burnout who clawed her way back to the one thing that ever made sense: writing.

For the first time in my life, I’m not just surviving. I have a supportive partner—someone who sees me, who believes in what I’m doing. And for the first time, I have the headspace to truly dedicate myself to my craft—to build something real.

This is my second act. My son is grown. My time is mine. And I intend to use it.

I want to write literature that matters—stories that inspire, unsettle, and stick with people. Maybe, just maybe, someday someone will create something of their own, and I’ll have been a small reason why.

But I don’t just want this to be about me. One of the best things about writing on a platform like this is seeing the incredible work of other authors. Every time I read a powerful story, I wonder—what’s driven them to share their words? What moments shaped them into the writer they are today?

So if you’re a writer too, tell me—what inspires you? What made you put pen to paper for the first time? Let’s talk about it. Let’s keep creating. Because the world needs more voices willing to say something real.