Writing & Life: What Does That Even Mean?

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I’ve been a writer nearly my entire life since I was a little girl at my nana’s kitchen table with her typewriter. I’ve written short stories as part of a correspondence course as a teen, written stories and novels that were never published, and written numerous poems, many of which have been published in journals in print and online.

There’s this odd feeling I get talking to other writers when you don’t have a book — “you’re not really a writer”. Mind you, this could be the internal “voice” that often tries to have a say in my writing even when I know it is wrong. And no, I’m not fishing for complements or pep talks, etc. I know I am a writer.

But there is that expectation that at this mid-life time, I should have a book to sell or talk about or something.

Here’s the funny thing about life: it is unpredictable.

Going to college for an undergraduate degree was not a guarantee. My parents had never been, did not understand the process, and I was going to be the first if I could get the financing. It was a privilege I was afforded by financial aid (which took far too long to pay off) and some help from my nana, who never saw me graduate because she passed away before I graduated college.

Am I grateful for my college experience and degree — yes. No regrets. Do I wish the graduation process had provided greater guidance for an English/Political Science double major — hell, yes. But by then, I also was burnt out on school and had racked up enough debt to know an MFA or any graduate degree was out of the question financially.