What do you want to be when you grow up?

We ask kids what they want to be when they grow up? We ask successful adults when they knew they wanted to be … whatever job or position they currently succeed in. Did you always want to be a nurse? Why did you want to become a doctor? When did you know you wanted to be an astrophysicist?

It would be awesome if we could separate who we are from what we do for a living. What if when we asked kids what they wanted to be they answered: I want to be kind, courageous, and creative? Wouldn’t that be magical? But that’s a discussion for another time.

If someone asked me when I knew I wanted to be a writer, I’m not sure what my answer would be.

 In Kindergarten, I clearly remember not wanting to be a doctor. It’s a coincidence that my father happens to be one. In fifth grade, I wanted to be a singer/model. A few friends and I sang the national anthem at a hockey game on a red carpet that year. I was clearly destined for stardom.

In seventh grade we had to write a story. I wrote a brilliant Sailor Moon spin off, but I’ve since lost any record of, so I can’t be sure. At this point in my life, I was reading, we’ll call it, a lot. Those books and stories revolved in my head. I added characters and story lines as I bounced in gentle circles around our trampoline. In the warm desert evening, I listened to cicadas create their buzzing music and played stories through my head, bouncing round and round. The offshoots were endless, the ideas propagating constantly.

In high school, I began to consider my path for the future I wanted, but my vision was hazy. I liked teaching but didn’t want to spend all my time grading. I was drawn toward English, but I didn’t think I could stomach reading a mountain of crappy essays. I didn’t know what I wanted so I didn’t know how to get there.

In college, I majored in English because I liked it. I had a small notion that I wanted to be a writer. I took a creative writing class. I got a B, so that meant I was terrible. Naturally, I gave up. I was rubbish at it so why try? My fixed mindset did not allow for failure. My fear of deficiency kept me from getting better. I am still working on shifting that attitude. I recognize that making mistakes is not the end of the world and they help me ultimately grow, but I still don’t like it. It’s probably not meant to be something we like.

Some piece of me still wanted to write since I took another creative writing class my last semester of college. I had another mediocre experience. And I stopped again. I believed if I wasn’t immediately good at something, I never would be. It was not worth trying. I think Yoda did me a disservice here. Trying and failing and trying again is how we ‘do’.

So, I couldn’t be a writer and didn’t want to be a teacher—what then?

 I graduated college, got married to my high school sweet heart (yes, very cute, I know), and moved across the country all within about six months. After college, I needed a job. This was 2008-2009 and jobs were difficult to come by. I assumed I could substitute teach, but the state we were living in didn’t allow you to substitute with just a BA, which was what I could have done in my home state.

We moved again and I ended up working as an after-school teacher. I enjoyed this quite a bit since it involved teaching without—you know—the grading. At this point, I was trying to decide if I wanted to get a master’s degree and in what subject. I considered English, but it didn’t feel right.

I can’t remember when or what spurred the thought to get a Master’s degree in Library Science. I took a medieval manuscript class in French that I absolutely loved. I thought it would be pretty cool to work with old books. If I couldn’t be a writer, I’d be a librarian. I got my degree in just over a year and had my first baby two weeks after graduating.

I love being a librarian. I share stories and teach—but in an individualized and nuanced way.  Something special lights up people’s eyes when then find that book or article that is perfect for their research project. I love being a part of that process. Matching a reader to a book and is a high I never come down from. I still love it and will happily recommend books to anyone that asks (and even if they don’t).

Like I mentioned before, stories run amok through my mind all the time. I build them in my head but never wrote any down. Writing is a lot of work and like we discussed earlier, I was not good at it. I never felt truly compelled to put them to paper. Some piece of me did want to write, but I didn’t believe I could.

When I finally put fingers to keyboard and snapped a story onto the screen, a conglomeration of events propelled that innate yearning to plow through the fear blocking me. The events were as follows. The story taking shape in my mind was totally my own and circulated over and over, building into a compelling epic. My husband worked long hours. I had quite a bit of time during the day (you know besides the time I was raising two kids) before I worked as an evening shift Librarian. I was listening to Amy Poehler’s book Yes, please! She complains about how hard it is to write a book, but she says it is “the doing of the thing” that matters. I was also reading (I read multiple books at a time) a crappy book at the same time. I remember having the thought “I could do this.”

And then my sister showed me the viral clip of Shia LaBeouf forcefully yelling at the camera to “Do it! Just do it!” As ridiculous as it might be, it pushed me over the edge. I thought: I’m going to do this.

I had to write. The story in my head needed to be told. Shia Labouef yelled at me to just do it. Amy Poehler told me I could do it. A book I can’t even remember the title of showed me I could do it.

When did I decide I wanted to become a writer? I always loved stories. Maybe everyone does. Hearing my parents, grandparents, and aunts and uncles tell stories about my younger self, my siblings, and my parents when they were young. My grandparents told stories of distant ancestors handed down along with a random welsh word and the odd turn-of-phrase. I’m not sure when I knew I wanted to be a writer, but that was the moment I decided I could maybe…try.

As for why I wanted to be a writer? For as long as I’ve had memories, stories meandered in my head, growing and rooting around so much they were running out of room. They started settling in my gut and into my bones. They flowed into my bloodstream and filtered through the air I breathed. I had to give them voice or I’d bury myself in them. I hope to soon share them with the world and let them bloom.  

The librarian writer

I am a writer. I am librarian. I like books.

Honestly, I like books a tad too much. During college, I did a summer abroad in Paris. I added French as a major pretty much so I could justify this study abroad. This awesome outdoor used-book sale popped up on the streets of Paris at one point. I was in heaven. I found all these beautiful, well-aged, and well-loved books. I pictured my grown-up library filled with all these magically adorable books of complementary colors and sizes in English and French and whatever other languages I learned. The most visually pleasing and intellectually stimulating conglomeration of books imaginable would sit on the shelves of my library and announce that I was sophisticated. Une amoureuese de livres (sixteen years later this library has yet to materialize—I keep collecting books for it anyway.) I had this armful of charming books, more than I needed or could reasonably carry and approached the cash register. I set my books carefully down. 

I said something totally inspiring like “J’aime bien les livres.”

And the cashier responded, “c’est une bonne maladie.”

It’s a good sickness. 

This little phrase stuck with me all these years later. I love books, reading them, recommending them, discussing them, and writing them. Sharing books is in my soul

I love to learn and books make things discoverable that may not otherwise be feasible. We explore the unexplored, benefiting from other people’s experience and imaginations. 

Too much of a good thing

When I started taking serious forays into writing, I was reading 5-10 books a week. Books of varying lengths and genres. I would find an author I liked and read everything I could get my hands on—which was whatever I could find through my local libraries. I was listening to audiobooks all day long. Brandon Sanderson, Georgette Heyer, Sarah J Maas, and bajillion or two more. Patrick Rothfuss, I am still waiting!!!

You may not have noticed this, but there are only twenty-four hours in a day. I was listening ten+ hour books in one day. That’s kinda a lot. I was still doing all the things that to get done: laundry, making meals, taking my kids to the park, etc, but I was only half-present.

My husband, as an internal medicine resident, worked twelve-fourteen hour days, twelve days in a row, with a two day break in between another twelve days. I had no family in the area and no friends. I was isolated with two young kids. It was like managing an understaffed retail store without any support from corporate or adequate supplies. I got some relief when I left for my job as the evening shift librarian at the local community college, but it also cut into the few hours I saw my husband, my best friend. Books were my lifeline, my flotation device. They kept me afloat but didn’t help me out of the water. They were my crutch to get through a difficult period of my life.

I can see now how disengaged I had become. I forgot how to live in the moment. I was with my kids all the time but wasn’t all that present. I was not neglectful. I still got my kids food. I still read to them. We still had random dance parties and played pretend ninja battles. I enjoyed being with them and love my kids. But parenting is hard. I used escapism to combat the gnawing loneliness and isolation.

I had to let go of the crutch before I could walk on my own. I had to drop my lifeline and swim to shore on my own, but this took time. I could have made my situation better in a lot of ways. I had options for friends, I simply wasn’t the best at initiating contact. I wanted friendships to simply fall into my lap without any effort on my part.

I wasn’t miserable. There’s a lot I look back at with fondness during my time there, but I can also see that my all-consuming reading habit was not conducive to creating healthy relationships. I wrote my first book with this same frenetic, obsessive intensity. I am grateful for that story, for the drive I had to complete it. I am also grateful for developing a healthier work/life balance in the years since then.

I love books. I still read an absurd amount, but in a healthier way. I ‘unplug’ from reading or listening to truly engage with my family. I listen to audiobooks or podcasts while folding laundry, loading the dishwasher, or other boring tasks that come my way. But I let myself be fully present too. Life is about balance. I find when I’m working on a new book, it helps if I read non-fiction: history, writing, productivity, parenting, other self-help books maintain my attention while teaching me new things, but don’t ‘hook’ me to the same extent as fiction.

And the awesome thing about living a more present life?

It made me a better writer.