In 5th grade, Mrs. Burgess gave us an assignment to “write a story.” I don’t remember the plot, but my characters were two friends struggling with post-WW2, one of whom lost a dad in the war. They talked on tin can phones. I remember Mrs. B told me, “I made the characters very real.”
That inspired 3 journals, detailing the lives of best friends. One moves to New York on a whim, meeting her beau via taxi. I sacrificed recess to write this book, and in 8th grade, my peers(?) gave me the superlative most likely to become an author.
I’ve always wanted to write and thought fiction was the answer.
One of my favorite stories I ever wrote was in creative writing, shortly after my freshman English teacher said, “Kaylie Longley sounds like an author name.” It was my first English elective in high school: “Longley” became “Shortl(e)y.” I wrote a horror story where a girl fundraises for a trip to Colorado via scavenger hunt, and her lack of preparedness costs her more than the trip.
Upon re-discovering that short story last month, I realized I was already dreaming of Colorado (where I now live). I love the tale’s conciseness. And it is legit scary.
But what happened as my teens turned into twenty-somethings?
In college, instead of writing, I edited creative works, mainly fan-fiction for my big sis in KD. I learned how to video edit, too, thanks to an internship at my college’s marketing office. I turned to AP Style to scratch my journalistic itch for news and op-eds and performed independent research on SEO, Facebook and identity, Mean Girls and gender roles, and Fight Club and group think (sorry to talk about that one!).
After college, I occasionally blogged and now have a more scheduled calendar with Wednesday writings about writing and grace posts every 10 days. I’m freelance editing and writing about travels on Dream Suitcase. I’m attempting to write a book about habits, too.
I don’t know if I resorted to non-fiction because I felt I could make a career (actual funds) out of it or even scarier, if my creative tap for self-expression has perhaps run dry (or looks different). And that’s hard: curling up into a ball to read, write, or color was so much of my childhood.
To try to combat that fear, I’m tucking into Bird by Bird, writing about adolescence, like school lunches and holiday traditions. I’m honoring the space I’m in.
I’m still writing about writing every Wednesday.
I’m in a funk, and it feels like this is a reaction to “optimizing” mode instead of “creating” mode. This might be a symptom of anxiety-induced (over)productivity. Maybe I should see if friends need help with fan-fics again, perhaps I just need this space to process through writing, or maybe my purpose, my bigger Why behind it all, is changing.
Are my dreams changing? Am I transitioning to a new (mental, emotional) space?
I’m grateful my ex gave me some pointers on story, and I do have an idea for a sci-fi short. Perhaps I just need fun for its own sake again, and I’ll lean into that.
Writing, and this big life thing, is hard. But I’ll keep showing up. And I prefer maintaining this habit, even if this honest look at my past and present writing, is hard. I’m not giving up or giving in to breaking this habit.
How can you show up for yourself (such as breaking or making a habit)?