I majored in professional writing because it made sense. I didn’t like math, couldn’t remember history, and didn’t understand science. But I could write pretty well, and besides reading, it was my favorite thing to do. In high school, I took a creative writing class twice just because I could and my senior year, I took two English classes instead of science. I carried my journal everywhere and wrote in it constantly (that’s how I got this stack). I wrote at home, during lunch, when I finished my homework, and especially in Chemistry, when I was supposed to be listening. I loved to write.
Until I went to college.
Maybe it’s just me, but I think the surest way to kill a girl’s love for writing is to make her pay an average of $27,000 a year to learn how to do it better. Oh—and she has to write whatever you tell her to.
Boy, did I write. I wrote book reviews, devotionals, term papers, articles, poetry, technical instructions, and short stories. I took classes on everything from world literature to editing to business and technical writing. And my last year, when I took all my classes online, EVERY assignment was writing.
Don’t get me wrong, my writing certainly improved. And I am very grateful for the education I got. But when I finished college, I really hated writing. So much so that I questioned why I went to school to learn how to do it. I liked editing better anyway, so why bother writing at all? I didn’t write for months.
Until I decided to review books for Bethany House. That’s when I started Editionally.
Reviewing an average of one book a month got me free books and just enough writing practice. About a year later, I decided to kick things up a notch (partly because I’m pretty sure my husband was the only one reading my reviews). For about a month now, I’ve been posting three times a week. And you know what?
I’ve re-discovered my love for writing.
I love sitting down to write at least three times a week. Planning posts, taking pictures, and sorting my thoughts into words and sentences has reminded me of something I’d forgotten.
I am a writer.
I think I was afraid to say it until I read this post earlier this week (and no, I didn’t get up two hours early the next day—it’s all about baby steps). I had subconsciously decided to stop calling myself a writer because I wasn’t writing anything (and I’m ashamed to admit I haven’t had anything published in at least two years). But I’ve learned an apple tree is still an apple tree, even if it doesn’t produce fruit in the winter.