The Early Years: a writer’s roots
By Jen Wilding
Between the ages of 5 and 12, if you’d have asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I would have told you both a ballerina and a detective. From ages 13 to 16 I would’ve answered: psychologist. From ages 17 to 21? A musical theatre actress. From ages 21 to 23? I would’ve replied that I am a stage and film actress, so of course, I would like to make some decent money acting. However, at 30, I make my living as an executive assistant, and I dread the inevitable questions indigenous to first-time introductions about my occupational identity. Of course, I could go on and on about my talents doing important corporate things for important corporate people, but at the end of the day, I want to say that I’m a writer and leave it at that.
I am a writer. Saying this out loud is like finally having a sex change after years of being raised the wrong gender, at least, to the extent that I feel writing chose me and not visa versa. I don’t remember consciously aspiring to be a writer; it’s just been a lingering identity recognizable only in hindsight. In fact, whenever I imagine the type of person who is a writer, I imagine someone far different than myself: someone who looks more intelligent, like a professor with reading glasses always dangling from their neck who gets up early enough to watch the sunrise, drinks coffee black, enjoys a cigarette now and then, has a garden, cherishes books other people use as step stools and door stoppers, and has a rare-vintage wine collection. Oh, and has a fireplace. But, even in the days of putting on my ballet shoes and thinking that they would be many sizes bigger someday, I was writing.
I won my first literary award, if you will, at age nine, as a Young Author’s school finalist. My story, The Attack Lawnmower, which I authored and illustrated, was about a family who purchased a lawnmower on sale at a department store only to find out that it has an evil mind and will of its own, wrecking havoc on homes, lawns, and hair of neighborhood pets. It was ultimately more comedy than horror, as far as genre goes, despite the dramatic title. Not exactly Pulitzer material, but good for a laugh or two (if you’re an eight year-old).
I sold my first poem at age eleven. It was a comedic poem called The Christmas Craze that poked fun at how outrageous people become during the winter holidays, likening this to an infectious disease, as part of a fifth grade assignment. After I read the poem aloud to the class, a fellow classmate asked me for a copy of it. Soon, other kids in my class were asking me for a copy of the poem. Since I started finding all the work involved in amateur self-publishing to be a nuisance (trips to Dad’s office photocopier), I began informing my fellow students that a copy of The Christmas Craze would run them a whole dollar, thinking this would deter them from requesting copies. Instead, they happily handed over the buck. Some of them even skimped on their school lunch for days to buy my poem at the end of the week. After a while, it wasn’t just my classmates, but other students in the school that were finding me to buy my poem. I was a poem pusher! (I read the poem again recently; it’s terrible. Suffice to say, there are people in Kentucky that I owe a hot cafeteria lunch.)
In high school, I wrote a winning political speech. Tabitha, a fellow classmate, wanted to run for Class Vice President. She had a lot of great ideas and was passionate about making them happen, but was insecure about campaigning because she lacked the popularity of the beautiful, blonde cheerleader who would be her opponent. I offered to pen her speech for the candidate assembly, articulating her own ideas and enthusiasm. She accepted my offer and ran for office. The speech was a hit, she won the election, and the cheerleader was dumbfounded. Teachers approached Tabitha and told her it was the best speech they’d heard in fifteen or so years of teaching. For me, it was a very feel-good contribution not unlike the proverbial, after-school special that ends with the school outcasts getting their overdue validation. The cheerleader, upset, asserted that Tabitha was undeserving of the win because she didn’t even write her own speech. I was happy to inform skeptical students that plenty of notable politicians employ the use of speechwriters on a regular basis.
In my earlier years, I never dreamed that I would grow up and publish a poetry collection, write award-winning stage plays, or draft a fiction novel. After all, I don’t smoke, I prefer my coffee with cream, I don’t have a garden or a fireplace, and there’s a long list of literary classics I’ve yet to crack. But, when I think back and take inventory, it does appear writing has been with me since childhood. Today I can say that I grew up to be a writer, albeit one still discovering what that really means, crafting corporate correspondence by day, and at night, spinning stories about ballerinas and detectives.
