The First Piece

When Vocal first launched its challenge for the new Writers community, I was a lot more perturbed and perplexed than pleased. Like many of you fellow writers, this is a question I've been asked and pondered over for myself many times before. And the answer has always eluded me.

What first story, poem, paper, or journal entry launched me onto this deliriously disappointing path as a failed writer?

I still could not remember. So, how could I form an entry to the challenge? Maybe I'd just make something up? I am a storyteller, after all, right?

Or maybe I would simply write about the god-awful poetry that I wrote in my angst-ridden teenage years? I still have some of it... But that would be too embarrassing!

The truth is the challenge itself didn't appeal to me because it isn't fiction or poetry. Nonfiction writing is simply not my thing. (A fact I'm sure you will all agree upon after reading this crap!) In fact, I've always sort of hated non-fiction as a genre altogether. Whether reading, writing, or watching it... it just seemed so pointless to me.

Unless it was required reading or watching, I have always avoided nonfiction like the plague. The times I had for watching tv or reading for fun were far too precious and rare to dedicate to anything other than comedic, fantastic, and fictional worlds. Those moments were reserved for one thing and one thing only: Vegging the frick out!

For me, "reality tv," documentaries, biographies, and the like are about as appealing as a cockroach in my morning coffee (and you have NO IDEA how much I hate and fear cockroaches!)

More than anything, though, I have always believed myself to be a strictly fiction writer. Only recently did I discover poetry as a truly pleasant experience. And while many of my friends have suggested I write an autobiography after hearing some of the tales of my ridiculously nutty life, I always dismissed the idea. Nonfiction writing of any kind just did not seem to be in my wheelhouse.

But then again, what the hell do I know, after all?!

I recently resumed attending university long distance in an attempt to finally finish my Bachelors. (It's only been twenty years in the making!)

And just last term I took a required creative non-fiction writing course. I'd been saving it for the last stage with the other dreaded courses: history and science (BLECH!). Because again, creative nonfiction was not something I believed in.

I'd been loving my other creative writing courses, and I'll admit to feeling quite pleased with myself as I received a fair amount of praise from my professors and fellow students. Despite my lifelong desire to be a famous writer, I'd never before really received any recognition for any of my non-academic writing. It was beginning to erode my ego, and with it, my writing mojo!

And I have to admit that while I still am not as fond of nonfiction creative writing as I am fiction and poetry, I did find the course and the writing assignments incredibly therapeutic and satisfying. The writing assignments helped me to unblock many memories and feelings that I’d been running from for years. And one of the resurfaced memories forced me to re-examine the way I viewed the writing world as a whole, and especially, myself as a writer.

And it all started with a school assignment.

I was about eight I suppose. She was my fourth grade teacher. Miss Blommel. She was a gem!

Mrs. Blommel was the first teacher I respected. The first one I wasn't afraid of. And she was the first teacher who saw something in me, who encouraged me, who inspired me.

It was a simple assignment. Write about an experience we had over our holiday break.

I had been unbelievably blessed that winter to spend the holiday break in Hawaii. My first actual vacation of any kind! I knew instantly what I would write about. It was a gem of a piece entitled, "Almost Disaster in Paradise."

(Yes. Even back then, I struggled to come up with good titles.)

I wrote about my sister's near-death experience on a beach that we had spent hours trying to find. I was very enthusiastic as I recalled the story of my sister being swept away in an almost tidal-wave sized swell (at least it seemed like it to an eight-year old), the fancy camera that was destroyed, the reaction of my father as he debated his choice of saving my sister or the camera, and the bizarre turn of events as my sister was saved by fellow beach-goers, and we discovered that the secret, hidden gem of a beach that we were recommended to visit was actually a nudist colony!

I no longer have that paper. I wish I did. I remember the title page, however. Handwritten in a crude and messy font, but adorned with a decent crayon drawing of a little girl being swept to sea on the cover page. The frayed edges of the lined paper stapled together along the left side with three uneven and jagged staples. I held that messy paper like a cherished manuscript.

I don't remember the story well, though. At least, not how I decided to pen it. I don't remember the wording or the tone. Though, I'm sure it was very dramatic. As I was a very serious child.

What I do remember is that it was very well-received. I received my first scholarly award for that paper. My first award for anything really.

Sweet Mrs. Blommel gasped. She chuckled. And she smiled at me with genuine pride. With a look that said, "wow. That was good!" And then she told me, "Wow, that was good!"

It was so good in fact that I was selected to read it in front of the entire school and our parents. I was so nervous. Excitement faded. Nothing but nerves as I stood in front of the auditorium with my wrinkled and frayed paper in front of me. But then something amazing happened as I began to read.

Everyone grew quiet. They seemed riveted as I read it aloud. Bolted to their seats with excitement as the waves crashed upon my sister, and bent forward in laughter when I revealed the sheer nakedness of the people who helped my sister.

Even the students who bullied me relentlessly seemed to be on the edge of their seats as I read the part about my sister gasping for air as the current pulled her under. The principal who I'd always known hated me threw my dad a sideways glance as I revealed his concern for the camera over my big sister (everyone LOVED my big sister!)

It was revolutionary. Me in front of the whole school.

Me... admired.

Me... Recognized.

Me...

Seen.

What an extraordinary moment. One that changed my outlook on school altogether, on life.

On myself.

My life changed that day. My ambitions, my goals. My self-worth. And it was because of something I wrote.

That paper. It was the beginning. The piece that put me on the path!

And it was a nonfiction piece. A creative nonfiction piece.

Strange how situations meet and collide in life. Just when Vocal launches this challenge I have this life-altering realization.

With that memory resurfaced, my desire to write was reinvigorated. But it was different this time.

I always thought it was my favorite authors like Jane Austen and Tolkien who had given me the writing bug. I knew what I wanted: to be a novelist. A bestselling fiction writer.

But now I remember where it all started. It was that assignment. The day that I read my story aloud. The day I saw the power my own words could have upon children and grownups alike. I saw a gift that I had been given. A gift I could share with others.

That was the day my life was forever changed. I met myself that day. And I introduced myself to the world. I was given a path and a dream. I was given an identity.

That day I said to myself and to the world: I'm a writer!

And it all started with a school assignment. I suppose we really do come full circle.

And I suppose... non-fiction has its place, after all.