When I Knew I Was a Writer
Some people seem born into their callings: priests, doctors, fire fighters, social workers. From the time they can form words, they can tell you what they want to be when they grow up, and how they’re going to help out around planet Earth. That was never me, until now. But hey, better at 54 than never! Here’s an inspirational read for all late-bloomers.
When I Knew I Was a Write
for Julie Martino, CPA
Some people start writing with seashells in the sand at age four, or in secret journals with padlocks at about twelve. Some people just seem to know from day minus one that they want to be writers when they grow up. But that’s not me. It actually didn’t hit me until I was 53. You’d think a strong personal essay that bumped me off the wait list and into my freshman class at college would have clued me in. Or the B-movie screenplay I wrote in my twenties. (That actually convinced me I couldn’t write.) Or maybe when I went for that Masters in creative writing, because something was missing in my thirty-something soul, and discounted degrees were a perk of working for a nonprofit. But that second diploma didn’t stamp “WRITER” on my forehead either. And in my forties, when I started mommy blogging at night because I just had to spill about head lice and classroom pets that died under my watch over summer break, did I see myself as anything more than a sleepy parent and animal killer then? NO. And not when I found my little story on the cobbler from Uzbekistan in print in the local paper either. Not even when my tips for surviving heartbreak sober were published in a nationwide recovery journal. The comments on that story were encouraging. And by now I had a fan base of friends and family who didn’t unsubscribe to my monthly newsletter. Nope, none of this helped me buy into my writer status.
Instead, I have a phone call from my accountant to thank for moving “freelance writer” up to the first line under my job description on LinkedIn. Last March, while preparing my tax return, she called to ask me about a 1099 for six hundred dollars that she’d pulled out of a clasp envelope, along with my W-2 from the City, for working as a teacher’s aide in a high school. “That was for a story I wrote for Bklyner on Marine Florists,” I explained, “plus a piece on a muscle parlor in Flatbush and one on a CrossFit in Red Hook.” “Did you drive to those interviews?” she asked. “Yes? Why?” I asked back. “About how much would you estimate you spent on gas?” “Gas? I dunno. Maybe five bucks?” She went on to ask about my expenses for electricity, wi-fi, print outs, pens and paper. She was treating my writing seriously, like a business, and me like a writer. Of course I was never serious.
But now I am. And here’s how:
I’ve gotten an agent. I asked my poet friend and former editor to be my agent. I started calling her by her surname and promised her a fat dinner out for the next piece published. We’re having fun with it, meeting weekly to edit, strategize and eat everything bagels, for which I keep the receipts.
I write any chance I get. Whenever I can steal a moment during the day, I’m in a google doc on my phone, or jotting a story idea on a paper cup, pressed against the steering wheel at a stop light. At night I’m on the comp, with my eighties YouTube hip-hop and iced 7-11. Or hot Lipton. Or both.
And since I’ve gotten serious, the universe has been meeting me halfway. And here’s how:
I found a great book in the lobby of my building called “How to become a Famous Writer Before You’re Dead.”
The pet lizard has crawled into the role of muse and cuddles on my collarbone over the keyboard all night.
I discovered a wonderful community of self-published writers on Medium.
Mind you, I’m not quitting the day job. Not now. Maybe never. I actually love the day job; those teens supply open-ended inspiration. But I’m also committed to writing daily, and nightly, and saying those three words out loud: “I’m a writer,” and not just into the bathroom mirror, but to friends and strangers alike. The kitchen floor hasn’t been mopped in a month, but I’ve never been happier.