The Full Story on How I Became A Writer

...which doubles as a tribute to really great elementary, middle, and high school teachers. Thank you and you matter.

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I started writing, seriously, in third grade. That’s the first I remember. Really. I wrote poems that were used to teach college students how to be better future teachers (if there is such a thing as a better future teacher). One poem I wrote started or ended with “I am a dreamer...” I won awards for my DARE essay. I scored higher in writing than reading on standardized tests, which was different, my teacher mentioned to me, she had never seen a student do that before. But I never found it odd. They say if you want to become a better writer, you must read. But I say, some of it must be innate talent. Some of it has to come from the heart. Because reading was too hard for me for a long while, especially while writing. It felt like too much noise. Too much pressure to perform like the greats. I have always been a better writer than reader, it’s true. So read, if you want to. Or write. Or find a combination of both, I recommend a combination, if I dare to recommend anything.

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I continued winning awards for my poetry and prose in middle school. I wrote about my teacher being the best first year teacher of all things, and I submitted the paper to some kind of wild contest. First prize, baby. Thank you, Mr. Zook. I won money for that essay. Real money. I participated in an amazing program called Poet in the Schools or Poetry in the Schools or something along those lines. We wrote poems with practicing poets – it was a competitive program and I was relieved to have made it, shocked to have made it, in each year. I performed at a local dive bar and coffeeshop (The Artful Dodger), where our poetry was set to a live music band. I need to find that poem, it’s about writer’s block. And I love it.

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High school changed my entire life because I met a creative writing teacher who changed my entire life. He’s honestly the GOAT when it comes to editing and refinement and telling a story and saving a life. Mr. Nipe, thank you for entertaining me with your talent for four whole years. I would not be here without you.

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Shout out to my high school English teacher, too, one of them, who taught me that my voice matters. Mr. Fencer, your interest in thoughts and ideas empowers me in a way that is hard to describe. Teachers matter, y’all. They really do. If you are a teacher, you matter. I’m always writing about teachers or to them. I texted my high school history teacher a few years ago because he made me laugh when the world felt dark and dull. One day. One memory. One act of kindness – eating a peanut butter and mayonnaise and banana sandwich that my friend Hannah and I had prepared. We dared him to eat it, and he did it. He did it! Like a true Southerner. Like a true superhero. I want to write about all these teachers, these movers and shakers. These guides. I am not who I am (as a writer) without them. We are not who we are without them.

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I studied psychology in college. I didn’t want to commit to an English or other writing-adjacent degree. I thought maybe I could help people in other ways. By becoming a therapist? Maybe. This drive away from writing is in part because (and I am still entirely bitter about this) a professor who had no business being in the English department. At the school. No business providing feedback on anyone’s writing. A not-smart professor with stifling ideas and rules. Rules like, “all papers must be 5 paragraphs.” Dumb… I get it, structure is important. But the lines can blur, should blur, this is not morality we’re talking about. It’s writing. It’s style. Be like ee cummings if you want to be. stop capitalizing words.

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Meanwhile, I wrote letters to companies and corporations like Walmart and Starbucks. I got free things for voicing my opinions about efficiencies and customer service, or a lack thereof. I wrote my way out of parking tickets and low grades. I craved feedback and guidance and direction from people like my good middle and high school teachers. I still do. I’m still driven by the As and accolades. The compliments and the advice. The lines of poetry or paragraphs of text marked with “conciseness” or “clarity” pointing out my mistakes. I want to be a writer who edits her own work. But alas, I rely on others like you to read and critique my skills and abilities. I treasure that critique. I want to grow.

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I will tell you a secret, now. And this breaks chronology, forgive me. My middle and high school teachers played more of a role in my writing career than anyone else. I feel compelled to bring up my middle school teacher. Mr. P, we are not in touch, but you made it into my book (!!) – a scene of me trying to remember longitude and latitude lines on a map, and your reassurance that transformed my brain on the spot. You helped me reframe negative self-talk and made me feel worthy all with one word. I hope you get to read my memoir. You won’t have to read far to find your story. I hope you are well.

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A psychology professor in college encouraged me to study birds. Seriously. Bobwhite quail. I wrote research papers about them that led to some publications, I believe. Prenatal learning in bobwhite quail in the days prior to hatching. In the animal lab, although it was demanding of my time, I fell hard, again, in love with birds and with writing… Mainly with writing. College lasted a horrible 5 years, and the hobby of writing for fun hiatus had begun because my mood could not withstand a horrible 5 years. The bobwhite quail and the research papers and the professor who somehow knew I needed birds and papers helped me survive.

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I ended up using my bird research to apply to grad school in a Writing, Rhetoric and Technical Communication program. I got in. I loved the workload. I worked long, long, long, hours writing papers and reading and writing for work and doing nothing but that. I burnt out, quickly, but by then grad school had ended. I wasn’t chosen for the best in my cohort, I won no awards, I struggled to find mentors who could actually help me as a writer. I found a few kind people, and a boss who called my writing “beautiful” which stuck with me. I also worked with two badass traumatic brain injury researchers, professors and mentors who made me a better person. I think I should have gotten my MFA. But, as some stranger at a 2025 holiday party pointed out “you got a degree in writing? And you’re actually a writer?!” – so yes, I value education.

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After graduate school, I took an undergraduate writing class as a member of the community. I hated it. I felt no connection to the professor of the course or the book that he published. Am I jealous? He published a book. Of course, of course. I felt indifferent about writing, because of my aforementioned burnout and my professor and the uninspired people in my class. I don’t like writing about this experience. My insides roil – a word I use in my book. Sediment to liquid. Unfortunately, I know the kind of writing professor I don't want to be. I will never be. And for some reason, writing about it makes a difference. Thank you to all who have challenged my cantankerous, stubborn self. I can write about the course, that professor. I understand my own strengths better since taking it. This experience, too, taught me valuable lessons.

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I grew out of writing for years, and back into writing recently. Anne Lamott inspires me like Maggie Smith inspires me like Lara Love Hardin inspires me. Writing is my favorite thing to do. I experience flow when writing, a trance state that almost feels like a dream. I am fully absorbed in each and every word that tumbles out of my brain. I'm wading in a river of words, scooping up the next best one. I have my boots on and the sun is shining. You, the reader of my work, are right there in the river with me (or on a nearby bridge if you prefer) fishing for words, fishing for meaning. A relaxing sport. We're at camp together, soon we'll crowd around a bonfire before moseying to our cabins. You can go anywhere your imagination takes you when writing. That's the joy I find in it.

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As of today,  I've signed up for more writing opportunities. This month. I am so excited. I promise to keep writing, okay? I'm super proud of myself. And one person who I trust and love said my book was good. Good guys!! That's what we want. Another said her book club would love it. A book club! Steady as she goes.