This question has been asked by more than a few (concerned) people…at several points in my life. See, there was nothing that made me start writing. I have always written. I have always loved stories. I have always loved to talk. (And yes, before you ask, I am most definitely an extrovert—not a common trait in authors.) To me, writing was just an extension of talking. I had something I wanted to share, a story to tell, a thought I had and wanted to remember. It began as entries in my diary; my coveted, white vinyl Holly Hobby diary with the impenetrable lock (not true—my brother broke into it quite easily). I wrote about who I liked; my daily activities. All items of mass importance. What I didn’t realize then, was that I was actually journaling, processing the day through my kid-journal to make sense of people and situations. I also wrote what people had told me—both good and bad. In essence, I was, in a rudimentary sense, learning how to create setting and dialogue.
It was the letters to my Granny Matt that really lit the fuse. She liked my letters. She encouraged me by asking follow up questions, gently nudging me to add details so she could see what I saw more clearly. (Kudos. I see what you did there.) By late elementary school, I had discovered index cards. Sounds boring, but it was not! (Come of think of it, this may be where my love of office supplies first took hold…omg! I love me some office supplies.) I created files for music I liked, for the records I owned (yes, vinyl—I’m that old), and books I read. I kept track of the details like titles and artists, or titles and authors, and included a brief synopsis of the item with a review. By middle school this expanded into writing (imaginary) reviews for Rolling Stone, the hippest, coolest literary journal on the planet. My interviews with artists of the day (or people I thought were of the day, as I didn’t realize some were already dead) became a habit; a habit I relished and expanded on with glee. I didn’t realize it then, but I was doing research. Tracking details and people and events, and indexing them for posterity. I had color coded index boxes by this time, each color indicative of a topic, and all the items within arranged first alphabetically, then chronologically for ease of access. But that was all in my personal life, with stuff only meant for my eyes. Or for the eyes of my grandmother who was nothing but encouraging and patient. The real test of writing comes when one puts the work out into the world. That was thanks to Mrs. Edwards.
It started because I wouldn’t stop talking. (Yes, that again.) I remember it vividly. I was talking…she was trying to teach. When I wouldn’t stop talking, she called me to the hall. She told me she was impressed I had so much to say. I thanked her. (Not sass—I genuinely thought it was a compliment.) She told me she thought a person with so much to say should run for class office. Yada, yada, yada—turns out I loved speaking in front of the class. I loved writing speeches. By spring, I was competing with the forensic team—in public speaking! (That probably didn’t need an explanation point—it’s surprising to absolutely no one.) And just like that—validation for writing. Or in other words—look out world, here she comes! (Side note: I won the class election too.)
My point in this rather long-winded explanation is this: I’m not sure one just becomes a writer. You either have the desire and do it…or you don’t. Writers write. Cliché, for sure, but true. It’s an antsy feeling from not doing the activity. It’s the compulsion to put words and thoughts down into some cohesive manner. Whether or not others see it is immaterial—we do it for ourselves. Can one learn to hone the craft? Absolutely! Can one learn skills to better communicate? For sure! But can one be taught to love writing? No. Writers are born. The trick is in the nurturing. And it starts small, from the gift of a diary to writing letters to a loved one (which I guess in this day and age is an email) to index cards and imaginary articles. Grab the writers where they are and just encourage them. I’m sure Mrs. Edwards never dreamed I’d be writing professionally one day (and I’m damned sure she never imagined I would teach). She just wanted that talkative girl to hush. And here we are……