Essay
Reflections on Being a Writer
When I was a child, when other children would draw pictures or play with toys, I would write stories. Invariably, they began with the ubiquitous “Once Upon a Time…” and almost always involved my friends or family. Upon completion, my newly penned story would receive the full treatment of layout and illustration, and would be neatly bound into a wrapping-paper covered cardboard hardback book. I was a self-published writer of extremely limited edition books. As I grew, my writing became more sophisticated and I moved from short stories to poems, winning various poetry awards throughout my high school career. I was an extremely local award-winning poet. One day, I just stopped. The End.
A year ago, if anyone had asked me what kind of writer I was, I would have answered somewhere along the lines of “I don’t write anymore.” If pressed, I may have offered up that Once Upon a Time, I was a poet. Even at the beginning of the creative writing workshop I took last year, I quite possibly would have claimed that poetry was my preferred genre. If not poetry, fiction would certainly be my second choice. I was a poet. I was a novelist. I was mistaken.
Hello. My name is Jennifer and I am an essayist. I was around ten years old when I first thought that I may be an essayist but my father told me that “no one reads those things,” so I pushed those propensities way deep, down inside and convinced myself I was something more respectable, like a poet or novelist. I read essays by David Sedaris and Sloane Crosley in secret, hoping that no one would notice or suspect that I was one of those kinds of writers. I didn’t write an essay again until I was 35 years old, sitting in a darkened computer lab on a community college campus, surrounded by like-minded writers and a supportive teacher that told me that it was okay to be an essayist; it was even okay to have them published. Crazy, right?
Focusing largely on dark subject matter, mostly because I find it more interesting and engaging, I still attempt to add humor to nearly everything I write. The best kind of humor: dark humor. If I can take someone to a dark and twisty place and still coax a smile, then I’m going there. My favorite twisted humor thus far is “Jake-in-the-Box.” If you can’t poke a little fun at a full-grown woman’s irreverent attitude towards a cremated teenager, then it’s quite possible that we can’t be friends. I prefer not to write about myself, as turning the microscope inward tends to make me feel either damaged or like an asshole. It’s not that I disagree with either of those sentiments, I’d just rather not tie it up into such a pretty little package to present to people. It’s far more fun if people discover that I’m an asshole on their own.
As for the answer to the unasked question: I’m not ready to have anything published. These poems, stories, and essays are still my little babies and I’m not ready to be told yet that they are ugly. They need some time to develop their personalities. Perhaps one day I’ll be able to let them go out into the world on their own, but I’m going to hold them close for a while. You should always cuddle your children when they’re young, because once they’re grown and gone, they belong to the world.
A year ago, if anyone had asked me what kind of writer I was, I would have answered somewhere along the lines of “I don’t write anymore.” If pressed, I may have offered up that Once Upon a Time, I was a poet. Even at the beginning of the creative writing workshop I took last year, I quite possibly would have claimed that poetry was my preferred genre. If not poetry, fiction would certainly be my second choice. I was a poet. I was a novelist. I was mistaken.
Hello. My name is Jennifer and I am an essayist. I was around ten years old when I first thought that I may be an essayist but my father told me that “no one reads those things,” so I pushed those propensities way deep, down inside and convinced myself I was something more respectable, like a poet or novelist. I read essays by David Sedaris and Sloane Crosley in secret, hoping that no one would notice or suspect that I was one of those kinds of writers. I didn’t write an essay again until I was 35 years old, sitting in a darkened computer lab on a community college campus, surrounded by like-minded writers and a supportive teacher that told me that it was okay to be an essayist; it was even okay to have them published. Crazy, right?
Focusing largely on dark subject matter, mostly because I find it more interesting and engaging, I still attempt to add humor to nearly everything I write. The best kind of humor: dark humor. If I can take someone to a dark and twisty place and still coax a smile, then I’m going there. My favorite twisted humor thus far is “Jake-in-the-Box.” If you can’t poke a little fun at a full-grown woman’s irreverent attitude towards a cremated teenager, then it’s quite possible that we can’t be friends. I prefer not to write about myself, as turning the microscope inward tends to make me feel either damaged or like an asshole. It’s not that I disagree with either of those sentiments, I’d just rather not tie it up into such a pretty little package to present to people. It’s far more fun if people discover that I’m an asshole on their own.
As for the answer to the unasked question: I’m not ready to have anything published. These poems, stories, and essays are still my little babies and I’m not ready to be told yet that they are ugly. They need some time to develop their personalities. Perhaps one day I’ll be able to let them go out into the world on their own, but I’m going to hold them close for a while. You should always cuddle your children when they’re young, because once they’re grown and gone, they belong to the world.