When I applied to the (MSWC) Masters Science Written Communication program, I was asked to write an essay explaining why I wanted a Masters degree in writing.
I recently came across the article, and it tells a story. I don't question why I do a lot of things that I do anymore. I listen to, and trust my intuition. The pieces though I don't always understand them, eventually falls into place.
One of my professors once asked, "Kitten, do you have a special place where you go to write?"
I told her that sometimes I write in bed which is a bad idea because I often fall asleep. Other times I write in the loft that overlooks my balcony and gives me a breath-taking view of the trees that lines the property.
I didn't tell her about the other place...the place inside where I can disappear for hours, shut out the world and bring everything that's inside out.
I was given 45 minutes to write the below article.
I was the little geek girl who never went anywhere without her notebook, and would disappear for hours to read and get lost in her head. Of my five sisters, I was the peculiar one who didn’t say much and had bigger than life ideas that left the people around me silent.
My journey to this point in my life in which I have decided to give in to my passion for writing and chase my dream wherever it may take me, hasn’t been easy. Like many, my life took a detour. I got married when I was too young to understand commitment – and became a mother when I was too young to understand the level of responsible involved in shaping a life. I was then, but I am no longer surprised that my marriage fell apart and I became a single mother who still needed mothering.
No. My journey hasn’t been easy. I had to grow up and that meant setting aside my notebooks, get out my head, and abandon my dreams if I were to survive. "How are you going to make enough money to support yourself? How in the world are you going to raise your son on dreams?"
I remembered staring at my mother and could not answer her questions.
So I grew up. I got several jobs, some barely paid the bills, and sometimes I cried myself to sleep because that’s what grown-ups do when the world becomes too heavy to bear. And then we go to sleep and wake up again, and it’s a new day with a lot of the same only there’s always a chance that it is going to be different. And even if it isn’t, we sell ourselves on hope.
I lived that life for many years searching for something to fill the void. I can’t say that I was unhappy, but neither was I fulfilled. I became very good at doing a job that I didn’t like, but it paid the bills and sometimes I splurged on expensive shoes - and I raised my son. That was my reward.
I would have lived a lifetime unfulfilled had the stories inside me kept silent. They bleated and roared and gnawed at me like an itch that you cannot scratch because it is inside you – the very blood that runs through your veins and the millions of cells from which you are made.
My passion felt like pain and only when I picked up my pen and paper and resurrected the life I’d buried could I rest.
I pretended to be a saleswoman - I wore different masks and played different roles, but I could not escape myself. The time came when the part of me that I abandoned came knocking on my door and would not stop until I let me back in.
It took me a while, but here I am - back on the trail that I abandoned many years ago. I now know that to live a full life, I have to embrace the person I was born to be.
I am here because I am a writer.
I got into the program.