Hello hello hello
Welcome to my Substack! Thanks for being here.
A little background…
It was October 9th 2008 and Mrs Camara was about to tell myself and the rest of Grade 1 what we had to write about in our latest creative writing assignment. Topics so far in the school year were classics such as ‘What I Did on my Summer Vacation’ and ‘What I Like About School’. The very last of the summer humidity was lingering in the classroom and a lot of us were still getting used to the concept of no longer having nap time, so the room felt languid and hazy. We were all intently listening to hear what today’s topic would be.
‘Grade 1,’ Mrs Camara began. ‘Today I would like you to write me five full sentences about your birthday.’
My 5 year-old body froze. This couldn’t be…
She continued. ‘I’d like you to tell me about your last birthday. What did you get? What did you do? Did you have a party?…’
Mrs Camara continued giving suggestions of what we could write one of our sentences about but I had stopped listening as my mind began racing and my blood started pumping. Mrs Camara has just asked us to write about our birthday’s on the day before my birthday. On October 10th, the very next day, I would be turning 6. I had been planning my birthday party for weeks, cards had started to arrive over the last couple of days and Mommy and I would be making the cupcakes this evening. This had to mean something. I knew that it absolutely couldn’t just be a coincidence but also understood it probably wasn’t a miracle; we had talked a bit about what miracles were in religion class this year and to my understanding they tended to involve sick people feeling better and lots and lots of fish. I guessed if it wasn’t a miracle it still could’ve been God trying to tell me something. I pondered briefly and decided it must be a sign that I am a destined to be a writer when I grow up.
I picked up my pencil and started writing.
‘Tomorrow is my birthday. I want my birthday to be great.’
What happened next?
I was the child who quit just about every hobby you could name (guitar, football, painting, piano, ballet - the list goes on) but my passion for writing was something that defined my childhood. I would carry a small notebook with me at all times and scribbled character traits I liked and random plots and premises I thought of. I’d write short stories in my free time and have teachers read them and give me feedback. I got into competitive creative writing programs and attended evening classes with mountains of weekly homework. Writing assignments at school got longer as we got older and I viewed the length requirements as mere suggestions; in Grade 4 we had to write three paragraphs so I wrote three pages. I believe the longest short story I submitted was 35 pages after a boy named Blake said he would give me a dollar for every page I wrote in Grade 6.
There was no doubt in my mind, or anyone else’s, that I would become an author.
But then when I started high school it all just stopped.
I did well in my English Language GCSE creative writing coursework (an uncessarily dark piece about a girl witnessing a rape at a party - sorry you had to read that Mr Harrison) and I had a short-but-succesful stint as a writer for my high-school’s student-written magazine, but beyond those cases I’ve struggled to even keep a journal in the last 9 years.
So, what now?
It’s a story you’ve heard before, obviously. I’m not original for having been special a long long time ago. You yourself might be the tap prodigy that never got back into it after an ankle injury at age 14. Or maybe you secretly hide your history as a horse girl despite the plethora of trophies your parents still have in the living room from your horse-riding days. And maybe like me you don’t really have a good reason for letting such a fiery passion die. Maybe at first it was adjusting to a new school. Then it was learning that the older you got the more English class was about reading other people’s writing as opposed to doing your own. Maybe it was that not all hobbies stick with you forever and that’s just life. Maybe it’s because I eventually learned that I wasn’t that good at it anymore and that frustrated me so I gave up whilst I grew up.
It’s probably a combination of all of those things, but the last is certainly the most likely. I’d get frustrated when the draft of a script wouldn’t be Tony-worthy in its first 30 minutes. I’d read other people’s work and shrink into myself when I realised I could never write anything like this. I refrained from writing for my university’s magazines and publications because that would mean people would actually read what I had written and that was far too nerve-racking of a prospect to bare.
However, in the same way a pianist would feel rusty after months or years of no practice, I need to accept that very few people have this pure, powerful, raw talent that is constantly humming and always ready to go. A passion is like a plant which needs cared for and visited often. So, to get to the point a little here, this Substack is simply a place for me to practice my writing. I am not fully sure what this will be yet; maybe I’ll curate a monthly newsletter with a bunch of updates about my life that you probably don’t care about, maybe I’ll post short stories and poems, maybe I’ll just treat this like a slightly sensored journal. Whichever way, each subscriber helps me hold myself accountable, so thanks for being here.
Until next time,
Ren
