Well, You Wanted to be a Writer

When I was in the third grade, we spent a lot of time learning about Native Americans. Each year afterwards, until about ninth grade, Social Studies always consisted of a long unit about Native Americans. I have to say, around fifth grade, I was pretty Native American'd out. I understood that they showed the Pilgrims how to put dead fish in the soil, plant corn and other crops, and basically showed the Pilgrims how to survive.

Later, we learned that to show their gratitude, the Pilgrims pillaged and diseased all the Natives, eventually killing them off.

But, in third grade, we did this one activity where we had to choose a book that had something to do with Native Americans, and make a triarama, which was this triangular, 3-D display made out of paper. For my book, I read The Quilt Story by Tony Johnston. I can't exactly remember the meat of this story, but I think the main character of it came from a Native American family.

I can remember working so hard on my triarama. I drew, colored, and cut out all my little pop-up pieces. I etched in a floor, completing it with details of knots in the wood. On the pop-up bed was a perfect rendition of the quilt. When it was finished, I oozed with pride over the final product. I sauntered up to my teacher's desk, careful not to drop my masterpiece. As I slid my perfect triarama across his desk, I saw his wide smile meet each one of his ears, and he lifted his eyes to mine. My third grade teacher was my favorite teacher I ever had. He was so fun and theatrical. So I knew when he pulled out a plastic bag from underneath his desk, something good was about to happen.

He dumped the contents of the bag out on his desk. The bulk of it was usual third-grader-prizes; pencils, erasers, stickers and some fake sorts of tokens. But the last thing he pulled out was a composition notebook. Not the kind with the wire rings, but the legitimate, Harriet the Spy, black and white composition notebook. I drooled at the sight of it. I picked it up almost as soon as he put it down, then he looked at me and said, "I had a feeling you'd choose that."

I filled that notebook from cover to cover with my first story I ever wrote, complete with detailed illustrations. I titled it, Mandy Brown. As you can probably guess, it was about a girl named Mandy Brown. She lived with her dad in Texas and her stepmother because her mom had passed away when she was little. She had a horse, which she continually rode en route to wherever her adventures took her. Although at the time I was only nine, I made Mandy thirteen. I can remember thinking that seemed so much older than it really was.

The other day I was stressing out over all these things I need to write. I had a short story due in one of my classes, a paper due in another, my blog and another writing project I've been putting on the back burner which is actually the most important to me but I can't seem to bring myself to find the time. Not to mention, the million "great starts" I have to stories, which I never seem to make past the second chapter.

I started complaining to Anthony about it, and his reply was, "Well, you wanted to be a writer." In usual Paige fashion, I went to protest, but instead I stopped.

He was so right.

If my foot could reach, I would have kicked myself in the mouth. Shut up, Paige!

I really hate the expression "Worry-Wart" but, I am a self-proclaimed one. I have mental meltdowns daily over fear of something bad happening to me. Since I was thirteen and watched a National Geographic Documentary about 2012, I lived in fear for six straight years that my life was going to end when I was just barely out of high school, because I was dead convinced the world was going to end. I probably wasn't the only person freaking out over that, but on a daily basis I feel anxiety that I'm going to let someone down. When I moved out of my apartment, I stressed for a month about telling my landlord I was going to leave. This past spring, I worked at this wicked shitty job, which made me miserable, yet I was so afraid of upsetting the owner I called her cell phone *67 and left a voicemail telling her I was quitting, then never picked up her calls afterwards. Last week, I left five minutes later than I normally do for class, and drove about 70 the entire way because I had so much fear about being late, which was just stupid because I'm in college, not fourth grade. Is anyone really going to do anything about me being five minutes late?

Sometimes, I can't help but think that's why I put off my writing. I had to work up some serious courage to even start this blog, because I was afraid of someone telling me my writing sucked. (Luckily, the reaction was just the opposite and this has actually been a wonderfully positive experience for me.) On the day I was running late to class, I had to submit my short story, and I was so angry because I was embarrassed to turn in such a piece of crap. But, when we had a chance to read each other's stories, I read mine, and actually thoroughly enjoyed it. It was a first draft, but it was a pretty damn good first draft! My fear of disappointing people or letting them down holds me back, and really defeats my confidence at times. I think I have a lot more to learn, not only in writing, but also just life, in general. But, where I am right now in both of those things, I need to give myself some more credit.

Anthony's response to my self-pity has been ringing in my ears since he said it. Well, you wanted to be a writer. It's still all I want; it has been since Mandy Brown.

My mom recently has been working on a project of her own with opening an art studio and gallery. For those of you who don't know, my mom is incredible at art. Lately, she's finally been referring to herself as an artist, and it's true; she is one.

I think it's about time I start calling myself a writer, because I am one.

I always have been.