I have a lot of wakeup calls from life, something I think happens because the universe is sick of my bullshit. You hear about people's stories on how they discovered they were writers; a heartwarming story of a kind teacher, crazy antics turned words, or years of not fitting in and finally finding your niche in life. Personally, I love those stories. I've never had a teacher come up to me and tell me, "Julie, I think you'll become an author when you grow up." Mostly, my teachers ignore me. I'm the quiet girl who sits through the entire class without speaking a word. I'm just a painkiller after the hangover.
I wish I had a reason for writing. I really do. Last year, more than anything in the entire world, I wanted my English teacher to come up to me and tell me that I was a good writer. We did a short story in the Hero's Journey format and I adored it! We spent almost a month writing, in and out of class. After the stories were graded and over with (which took a long time. My teacher got really sick-too sick to do anything other than sleep) I looked at my grade sheet.
To my excitement, there was a little note to the student, written in red ink. Mine said, "Great job! What pretty words!"
I was crestfallen. But I got over myself pretty quickly. Where would I be if I wrote for other people? I'd be chasing trends that I don't care about and trying to be just like them.
I became a writer because no one else would listen to me. Now, I take my words and try to make them useful. I wanted to create my own world. I'm not very good at it--hell, I haven't even finished one novel sized piece yet.
Maybe I write because I can't stand reality and I need to take baby steps into healing.
I don't know.
But the most important part is the most obvious; I write.