I sit at my family’s kitchen table, toes lightly skimming the cool linoleum beneath, with five pristine pieces of white paper before me. They’re freshly torn from an untouched notebook, the edges ripped along their perforated lines with a surgical precision; no excess flakes lingering about like an unseemly hangnail to mar their perfection. They smell of homework, of doodles, of the countless life predictions made through those infallible, handmade fortune telling devices that always made an appearance on the playground at recess. How certain I was that I’d one day have five million dollars, a cabin, and ten dogs.
To their right, a tall glass of chocolate milk chilled to perfection with drops of condensation sliding ever so gently down its sides. It’s not the premixed kind sold in the bottle – that was too expensive for our house. It’s the kind made from the store brand powder that always, no matter how hard I stir, leaves little boulders of dust circling about on the surface. These inevitably explode as I drink, coating my mouth with their sweet dust, and lead to at least one coughing fit – totally worth it. To their left, my favorite dessert: a cosmic brownie. This dense block of sugar is covered in chocolate chips coated with hard shells displaying all the colors of the rainbow. I love the way my mouth is flooded with chocolate after each satisfying crunch.
Between this delectable beverage and dessert, two brand new pencils Dad let me take from his desk for my looming task. They’re classically designed, long and yellow with a burst of silver at their ends, the perfect home for the shocking pink of the unused erasers. There are no dents in their wood, none of the toothmarks made from absentminded chewing that covers the surfaces of the pencils that fill my desk at school. I marvel at their pristine condition, hesitating to whittle them down them to fulfil my writing fantasies. But there’s no stopping me now. Dad even let me use his fancy electric pencil sharpener; one that grinds them to impossibly fine points in seconds flat, permeating the air with the scent of wood and lead. I press one against the tip of my finger, almost to the point of pain – there’s something oddly satisfying about the lingering indent left by its pressure. This pencil will leave an impact.
The stage is set. My confidence high. I am ready to write my first story.
*****
I sit quietly at the back of the senior English teacher’s classroom, still waiting for both my growth spurt and confidence to strike as a tiny sophomore. I feel small in more ways than one as I look around the classroom, the walls plastered with what I would eventually recognize as classic decor for educators of this subject – quotes from books I have yet to read, snippets of poems I don’t understand, scenes from plays I’d never seen. Shakespeare dominates; he takes up a whole semester for seniors in AP English and at least fifty percent of the wall space. As a lowly sophomore, my intellectual insecurities swirl about, making me anxious that I’m still struggling through The Scarlet Letter.
I have a spare notebook open as I hurriedly take notes to keep up with the fast-paced conversation at the front of the class; its battered pages covered with a random assortment of records, many of which are quickly forgotten, that inevitably make up the contents of these repositories.
Math – EVEN PROBLEMS ONLY, PAGES 13-17 (show work or no credit)
FTBLL CANCELLED THRURSDAY
Get bio permission signed for field day
But today’s notes are important; they must be remembered. This is my first day on the school newspaper, The Crimson Times. The publication of note in the hallowed halls of Jacksonville High School; the go-to pretend reading source for students who forgot a book for the required fifteen minutes of silent reading in study hall.
Sophomores don’t usually get this chance; I worked hard to make the cut for this staff, for the opportunity and privilege to see my name in print. I feel the pressure mounting as the editor starts doling out assignments, all listed on the white board at the front of the class in a striking shade of red, for the first edition of the year. The upperclassmen – so big, so self-assured, so loud in ways I one day hope to be – fight for the best assignments.
- An interview with the Homecoming Queen
- An editorial about ACT scores and their use in college admissions
- A preview of the upcoming football game with our biggest rival, Chatham High School
By the time the frenzy ends, there is one story left: an article in the sports section about the 2008 Beijing Olympics gymnastics team. I know nothing about gymnastics. I don’t enjoy writing about sports. I have no clue where to begin researching this topic. But my meekness in the face of the seniors’ ferocity leaves me with no other options.
My editor writes my name next to the article on the whiteboard, sealing my fate. For a moment, I’m crestfallen. This isn’t what I’d dreamed of for my first article. Then I remind myself a good journalist should be able to fulfil any assignment, should relentlessly pursue the threads of information until they’ve exhausted all avenues. I am determined to make it work.
I am ready to write my first article.
*****
I sit at my desk in my dream apartment in a city I never thought I could call home, looking out the windows onto the charming street below. It’s become a favorite pastime of mine as I work from home each day, one that for whatever reason, helps me overcome creative blocks. There are floofy dogs proudly prancing down the sidewalk with nary a care in the world, their owners often following behind smiling at their smugness. There are numerous attempts at parallel parking, some more successful than others. On warm days, there is often a saxophonist on the corner, one who spends hours serenading the neighborhood with his smooth tunes. He’s by far my favorite – though the musical puppeteer is a close second.
I’ve spent the day writing. That’s my day job. And my passion. But I don’t think I’d be writing about maintenance, repair, and overhaul in aviation, among other similar topics, unless I needed it to help me pay the bills, buy food…you know, survive. It’s writing with a clear goal, a business purpose. The objective is to support the narrative those with much higher pay grades determine. It can be frustrating at times, but at least there are components of my job that are tied to my passion. Not everyone is so lucky.
We have benchmarks. KPIs. Corporate buzzwords and jargon galore. Meetings to explain meetings, where so many things are said and, simultaneously, nothing is said at all. I’m labeled a creative because I write, because I ask questions, because I pitch new ideas. Some mean it as a compliment – others, not so much.
Either way, I know how to do this. I’ve become so practiced, it’s almost second nature.
But tonight, as I look out on the street, wishing for warmer weather and a saxophone serenade, my decade of “professional” writing experience is being put to the test.
There is no goal, no hook, no KPI or lede to meet or address. I’m just supposed to try. Put something new down on paper. Be brave. Push myself. Have no fear. It hurts my brain – in the best possible way. It’s freeing, having the chance to be wrong. To make mistakes. To have the chance to grow. To have fun.
I think back to the sense of purpose and excitement I felt all those years ago sitting at my family’s kitchen table, still too short for my feet to fully reach the kitchen floor, surrounded by an absurd amount of chocolate and those beautiful new pencils.
Instead of chocolate milk and a cosmic brownie, I now have herbal tea and yogurt. My feet are fully planted on the floor, though I now need a pillow for lumbar support as I sit. I don’t have fresh pencils or paper, just an old, battered laptop that has seen more pages of writing than that young kid could have ever imagined.
The stage is much different now, but the enthusiasm is still there, simmering just beneath my skin like a current of electricity; each stroke of the key feels like a lightning bolt, unleashing my power one letter, one word, one sentence at a time. And even now, after all these years, I’ve found a new, invigorating challenge; another phase of writing that will lead me somewhere unknown.
I am ready to write my first essay.