From the time I finished One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish, the first book I read alone, I was, well, hooked. (Insert groan.) Reading was my obsession. I read over my cereal bowl at breakfast, under my desk during math class and in bed at night. My earliest memory of a career goal was wanting to be “an artist and an author.” I would fold sheets of paper in half to make “books.” The covers of these early attempts were lovingly illustrated, with a carefully-printed title. The words “by Christie” were written proudly at the bottom. Unfortunately, the inside pages were mostly blank. I was too busy reading to finish writing.
Long after the cold water of reality washed away any hope that I had talent as an artist, the desire to write continued. I wanted to be the name on the cover of a book; the one who created the worlds I loved to read about. The desire lay dormant for a while as I finished up school and began working. I took a creative writing class now and then, but in class I kept trying to impress teachers and students alike by imitating the literary fiction style everyone else did–something deep, meaningful and usually depressing–that was miles away from the lighthearted adventure stories I longed to write about. When I didn’t find much success or inspiration there, I put writing away as a hobby I would someday pursue.
I worked for a while at jobs I enjoyed, but I continued to look through employment opportunity pages, hoping to find an ad that read “Writer needed. No experience necessary–only qualification: imagination. We’ll pay your rent, utilities and grocery bills while you spend days at home creating stories. Christie, please contact us at…”
Needless to say, I never found that ad. Instead, I married a wonderful military man. We moved several times the first year of our marriage, and at each new location I pored over job listings, trying to find something that interested me. I couldn’t. Knowing that as soon as I settled into any job I would have to pack right up and leave again left me feeling that I would be a poor choice for an employer, no matter how capable I was. I needed to find a job that could move with us. And suddenly, that old desire to be a writer came to the surface again. This time, it almost made sense. When I broached the subject with my husband, he was more than supportive and told me that I needed to pursue it. Instead of being elated, I fed him all the arguments against it that I had expected from him, ranging from “I don’t have any experience in it” to “It probably won’t pay much–if anything–for a long time.” He shot down those insecurities and told me to go for it.
So here I am. I’ve had a few things published, just couple of articles and short stories thus far. I’ve read magazines and books and articles and textbooks on writing, and now I’m getting into the real work: actually writing.
