Nobody puts baillee in the corner

Once upon a time, there lived a prospective writer, who also had a badass unicorn and the ability to turn any food into breakfast tacos because this is my autobiographical moment. All* of her teachers told her she had potential, but she continued to doubt herself because her writing didn’t sound like the authors she read in class.

*most, but we’ll get to that.

She dreamed of finally using the coveted golden pen. (I’m not totally sure what the golden pen corresponds to. Maybe fame and fortune and brunches with Beyonce? Fantasy really isn’t my forte, so roll with it). However, legend had it only the worthiest of writers could lift it from the stone desk. (Again, fantasy writing REALLY isn’t my thing). Each day, she awoke hoping she could lift it, but she never tried for fear of failing. After slaying a dragon, forming an amazing all-girl prog rock group, and you know, realized each writer has their own voice, she was finally able to retrieve the highly referred golden pen and lived happily every after with her prince, Fall Out Boy bassist Pete Wentz (this started circa 2007 but still holds clout in 2016). The End.

If you know me, you know it definitely wasn’t that easy.

You might be asking yourself why I started a post about my insecurities as a writer with an ill-conceived, and downright absurd, fable, or you might be saying, “Oh! I get it. She used literary devices to show why she has her own voice as a writer thus proving she’s overcome some of her self-doubt. Clever.” (Thanks Mom and self-satisfying, imaginary Sarah Koenig I just created).

I used to be horrified let other people read my stuff. I purposely went last in class, praying the bell would ring before I spoke a word. I read all the time, but I felt like because I wasn’t a Fitzgerald, Shakespeare, or luckily Hawthorne (sorry Nate) that my writing sucked. My teachers raved about my papers. I got straight As in English, including the essay I wrote for Pride and Prejudice, when in all actuality, I read Pride and Prejudice and Zombies. I just couldn’t see it. I didn’t see it as good writing but rather good ol’ fashioned good bullshitting (contrary to whatever I said in high school, I read almost every book I was assigned, with the exception of The Poisonwood Bible. I just couldn’t get into it. Sorry Oprah.).

Sure, there were some creative writing pieces I thought to were mediocre at best, but it wasn’t until my freshman year of college that I realized I had (some) potential. But before we get there, let’s take a moment to discuss the couple of well meaning yet misguided teachers we made the asterisk for, shall we?

The first blow to my writing self-esteem came from my sixth grade English teacher, who called my writing “cute”. That’s definitely not the worst thing that someone’s said about my writing, but to an 11-year-old, that’s sole-crushing. I didn’t want my writing to be cute. I shopped at Hot Topic for crying out loud. I wanted to be edgy and thought-provoking. I wanted to be my generation’s Salinger. I was a little Ralphie, devistated that even my teacher thought I’d shoot my eye out. But I managed to pick myself up by the laces of my Converse (complete with Oasis lyrics on the toes, thank you) and carried on.

It was smooth sailing (at least writing wise that as. if anyone tells you their pre-/early post- pubescent years were easy, they’re either lying or share a plastic surgeon with Kylie Jenner). The second big hiccup didn’t happen until I’d almost accepted my fate as an artiste.

I asked a beloved high school teacher whether or not they thought I should major in journalism. They said no because their son (and yes, I’m purposely using gender neutral pronouns) was going back to school for a secondary degree because he was tired of starving to death. Let’s start with the optimistic view here. Remember, this was 2010. Print journalism was in a crisis, so I’ll give them that. I’ll also give my teacher that I’m more of a creative than journalistic writer, so in a way, they saved me. What I won’t give my teacher is they didn’t want to foresee the new wave of online publications on the horizon. They didn’t see the rise of the blog. Most of all, they didn’t realize what the advice of a mentor can have on an impressionable college freshman. They didn’t realize I held them in such high esteem that their comment broke me a tad (cue the instrumental version of “Christmastime is Here”).

Luckily, I realized how wrong they were. But by then, I had already settled for my third and final major of PR & Advertising. Sure, I loved my professor dearly, and she still serves as a mentor to me, but I would have much rather honed in on my writing. Fortunately, a LOT of my Communication professors and ENGW elective professors saw my talent and helped me utilize it. Some of them even gave me a lot (like, a lot, a lot) of leeway on assignments to better fit my creative needs. They helped me realize I could do anything I wanted. They are definitely a giant influence on my ability to share my writing with others, and they’ll never understand how thankful I am to them.

Now, I don’t care who reads my writing. I don’t care that I sometimes I make weird references only one person gets. I don’t care that I probably overuse parentheses. I don’t care that my voice doesn’t sound like the greats we study in school. I’d rather be bizzare with Palahnuik, funny with Tina Fey and Amy Poehler, and pop culture heavy with James St. James. I want to have crazy, silly autobiographical pieces like Chelsea Handler. I want to say the things that people want to say but can’t. I don’t care if no one agrees with a thing I say. Most importantly, I don’t care who reads my writing anymore, as long as it isn’t anything out of my Barbie diary from the fifth grade.