I was Never Supposed to be a Writer
(a sappy Thanksgiving post)
I almost didn’t become a writer. In fact, I actively fought against it for most of my life.
It makes it hard to answer the question “When did you know you wanted to write?” because the answer is both “always” and also “never.”
I remember coloring stories as young as five-years-old. By seven, my first grade teacher sent me to the Young Author’s Conference in Nashville, Tennessee where we wrote and bound our own picture books. In fourth grade (age nine), I had an essay published in a “Chicken Soup for the Soul” style book about my little brother’s birth.
Needless to say, I’ve loved to write since I was a kid. It was almost instinctual. But, when people asked me what I wanted to be, an author never crossed my mind. Pretty sure my answer was a teacher (only because I liked coloring on the whiteboard) or a store cashier because I liked the beep the register made when they scanned items.
Real deep stuff, there.
By middle school, I dabbled in fanfiction and tried writing my own original stories a few times. The issue—I could never finish something more long form. Clearly, I wasn’t meant to be an author. Add peers “bullying” me for being a weird writer kid, and adults reminding me that my skills in English, writing, and literature “wouldn’t pay my bills” and guess what happened?
I swore off writing.
Obviously, it was weird. Clearly, it wasn’t a respected profession. And I couldn’t write a book anyway, so, dream finished. On to the next.
I stopped writing (outside of school assignments) at thirteen. High school started, and I focused on barely passing Algebra. My new career goals turned to Physical Therapy. Occasionally, my mom would nudge me and remind me what a talented writer I was and suggest a career based around English or writing (especially when I sobbed over the latest near-impossible math assignment).
I’d laugh and swear absolutely not.
By seventeen, Sewanee, the major liberal arts private college in Tennessee was headhunting me. They offered a sizeable scholarship and I said, “hard no.” Why? Because I was NOT majoring in English or writing.
After all, my whole life, I’d been told there was no future in that. No money. Definitely no career.
Fast forward to my freshman year of college—I barely passed my college Algebra class. Honestly, I think the poor professor passed me so he wouldn’t have to see me again, and reality slapped me upside the head. The next class I needed was calculus and physics.
I cried.
There was no way I could pass those if I couldn’t even pass a simple Algebra midterm. The time to choose a new major was here, and my options were slim—English. Liberal arts. The things I’d always sworn off. The things without math.
I went undeclared and waffled for a semester. It was at this time I helped with a telethon for my sorority and spent an evening at the local TV station. And I fell in love. I loved the lights, the cameras, the production and the energy.
I distinctly remember standing in that studio and thinking, this is it. This is my career. This is what I do. I changed my major at the end of that semester to journalism—the first time I caved in six years and considered a career centered around writing.
Okay. I’d write for a career. But it’d be Journalism. That was respectable. Not weird fiction people made fun of me for, but a clear career. I could do that.
So I did.
Somehow, when everyone told me I wouldn’t make it in journalism (only 10% of graduates make it), I never believed them. When my professor’s ex-wife slandered me in the industry and almost burned my chances before I even graduated, I fought my way to an offer from CNN Atlanta (that I turned down), and made myself a solid career.
I was good. I had the number one show in the nation for my affiliate and time slot. I wrote every day, all day—but it was news stories. Nothing creative.
Why would I do that? Creative writing, after all, was silly. That’s what I’d decided at thirteen. My mom would still nudge me even in my mid-twenties to consider writing a book one day and I’d scoff, “There’s no career in that. You can’t just write a book and get published.”
In 2018, I left journalism to stay home with my son. At twenty-five, I was home every day, all day with a baby. And bored. I was so used to a fast-paced environment, and writing all day every day to suddenly sit home and do…not that…was isolating.
And if I’m honest, I missed writing. If I’m really honest, I mourned it.
I tried blogging (flop), and my mom once again suggested writing a book. I laughed and said, “Hell no. I can’t write like that.” Instead, I made a photography business.
Then came 2020, and I’d had a second baby, my daughter. We were very isolated with a raging pandemic and a newborn at home, and I stumbled upon Nanowrimo. Maybe it was postpartum, maybe it was severe sleep deprivation—but I considered it.
I’d written for the news. I’d written creatively as a child. I was now home, not writing, and missing it. Blogging hadn’t work. I couldn’t freelance because my schedule was the opposite of predictable. Maybe I’d try this little Nanowrimo thing…just for fun.
And absolutely not tell a soul. Because creative writing is embarrassing. And worse than doing something embarrassing is doing something embarrassing and failing. So, I came up with an idea (a fantasy idea actually), and got to tapping on my keyboard.
I got 30k words in and got stuck. As usual. Just like when I was thirteen.
But somehow, maybe maturity and grit, instead of quitting, I had a burning resolve to make this work and finish a dang book. I researched plotting and outlining and decided that was my answer. After all, as a news producer my job every day was to outline and plan a news cast. If I could do that, and do it well, I could write a book.
That fantasy book failed. Twice. It’s still unfinished somewhere in the depths of my hard drive. It will never see the light of day. But I pivoted to a contemporary romance idea about a disgraced news producer and a grumpy goat farmer (weird, I know. It’s my brand).
But, I finished it. And no one in my life knew I wrote a book. Because writing a book and being an author was never the plan, remember?
But somewhere along the way, it became the new goal. If all these other books could exist on a shelf, why not mine? If I could cut it in a cutthroat industry like TV news, and make it against the odds stacked against me once—surely I could do it twice.
I researched traditional publishing, getting a literary agent, craft and joined writing groups. All the suppressed passion for writing and books came pouring back. I think this is who I was always meant to be, dating back to my early writing days with a crayon and mermaid pictures.
Now, in 2024, quickly moving toward 2025, I’ve written two books–good books. One is on submission with traditional publishing houses. The other will go out in January. I’ve connected with my writer side, and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to let her go now. The years of denying my ability to write, or how much joy it brings me is over. To stop writing now feels akin to cutting off my own arm.
As I write this, it’s Thanksgiving Eve, and I’m clearly feeling a bit sappy. Reflecting back, I’m thankful for all the little nudges and nods along the way that forced me onto this path I literally avoided my whole life.
It only took thirty years, but I landed exactly where I was supposed to, and I’m looking forward to see what happens next.
-K