I Decided to Be a Writer Before I Knew That Was an Inconvenient Choice
- info1073428
- Feb 27
- 6 min read
I do not remember learning how to read.
I remember *having read*.
There is a difference.
Somewhere between phonics worksheets and the mild panic of being called on to pronounce a word I had only ever encountered privately, I realized that stories were not just entertainment. They were transportation. They were leverage. They were, if we are being honest, a way to escape whatever mildly humiliating situation elementary school happened to be offering that day.
By second grade, I had already made a decision.
I was going to be a writer.
This was not announced publicly. I did not gather my classmates and declare my literary intentions. Southern children are taught restraint early. We do not brag about futures that have not yet materialized. We nod politely. We complete our assignments. We wait.
But privately? I was certain.
The problem, of course, is that wanting to be a writer in the South is treated with the same practical concern as announcing you intend to become a professional tightrope walker.
“Well,” someone will say gently, “that’s nice.”
That word—*nice*—has ended more ambitions than outright criticism ever could.
In elementary school, however, practicality has not yet tightened its grip. You are allowed to want improbable things. Astronaut. Movie star. Paleontologist. Writer.
I began where most of us begin: wide-ruled notebook paper and an overactive imagination.
My early stories were dramatic. Not in a refined way. In a reckless, unstructured way. There were storms. There were villains whose primary personality trait was “evil.” There were heroes suspiciously similar to myself but taller, braver, and in possession of more impressive hair.
Subtlety was not yet part of my skill set.
I remember the first time a teacher read one of my stories aloud to the class. I would love to tell you I handled this moment with humility and grace.
I did not.
I pretended to be embarrassed while internally ascending to what I can only describe as a modest throne. It was intoxicating. Not the attention, exactly—but the realization that something I had made in silence could command a room.
That was the moment.
I understood then that writing was power.
Not loud power. Not domineering power. But the quiet kind. The kind that rearranges a space without raising its voice.
Growing up Southern, you learn quickly that power is often subtle. It lives in tone. In phrasing. In what is not said.
Writers, I realized, had mastered that.
So I wrote constantly.
I wrote during free time. I wrote when I should have been doing something more socially beneficial. I wrote stories about small towns that bore a suspicious resemblance to my own. I invented characters who carried secrets far more dramatic than anything actually unfolding in my zip code.
Because that is the other thing about Southern childhood: on the surface, everything appears calm.
Underneath? Entire epics.
Elementary school stories tend to fall into one of two categories: heroic fantasy or thinly veiled autobiography. I oscillated between the two. One week I was crafting elaborate tales involving treasure maps and mysterious strangers. The next, I was documenting playground politics with the intensity of a war correspondent.
I noticed things.
Who sat with whom at lunch. Who avoided eye contact. Who seemed louder than necessary. Even then, I was less interested in events and more interested in motivations.
Why did he say that?
Why did she look away?
Why does the teacher pause before answering certain questions?
Most children are content to participate in life.
Writers, unfortunately, are also analyzing it.
This does not always make for smooth social development.
While other boys were perfecting their fastball, I was perfecting plot twists. I played sports. I ran around. I did all the expected things. But there was always a parallel narrative unfolding in my head. Every game had stakes beyond the scoreboard. Every disagreement had layers.
It was exhausting and exhilarating in equal measure.
At some point—likely around middle school—reality intruded.
Adults began asking the question.
“What do you want to be when you grow up?”
This question is presented as encouragement but functions more like a litmus test for practicality. You are expected to offer an answer that reassures the room.
Doctor.
Lawyer.
Engineer.
Something with a salary that can be explained at Thanksgiving without causing tension.
“Writer” lands differently.
It is received with polite confusion. Follow-up questions inevitably emerge.
“Oh. What kind of writing?”
This is not curiosity. It is damage control.
If you say journalist, they nod. That feels adjacent to employment. If you say author, the room shifts slightly. Not hostile. Just… recalibrating.
I began to understand that wanting to be a writer was not just an aspiration. It was an inconvenience. It did not fit neatly into conversations about stability. It did not produce immediate applause.
So I did what many Southern boys do.
I grew quiet about it.
I did not stop writing.
I simply stopped announcing it.
The notebooks multiplied. Stories became longer. Characters became less cartoonish. Villains developed motives. Heroes developed flaws. The world on the page grew more complicated as I did.
High school introduced the concept of practicality with increased urgency. Guidance counselors spoke in tones suggesting that dreams should now be itemized and evaluated for return on investment.
I listened.
I nodded.
I filled out forms.
And then I went home and wrote.
Because the desire never left.
It evolved.
Writing stopped being about applause. It stopped being about teachers reading my work aloud. It became something quieter. More stubborn.
It became identity.
There is a peculiar persistence to people who know early what they are meant to do. They may detour. They may delay. They may temporarily adopt more socially acceptable titles. But the original call remains.
It waits.
Looking back, I realize that growing up wanting to be a writer shaped everything. It sharpened my attention. It trained me to listen more than I spoke. It made me comfortable with solitude in a culture that prizes constant social interaction.
It also made me acutely aware of story everywhere.
In church pews.
At football games.
At the grocery store checkout line where two women exchange pleasantries that carry three levels of meaning beneath the surface.
The South is a masterclass in subtext.
Elementary school me did not have that vocabulary. But he sensed it. He sensed that beneath the polite nods and careful phrasing were entire sagas unfolding quietly.
I wanted to capture them.
I still do.
There is something beautifully naive about deciding at eight years old that you will be a writer. You do not yet know about rejection letters. About doubt. About the long stretches where words refuse to cooperate. You only know that stories feel necessary.
And necessity is powerful.
I have written a great many things since those early, wide-ruled pages. Some of them are better than others. A few should never see daylight. But all of them trace back to that original certainty.
I did not choose writing because it was practical.
I chose it because I could not imagine not doing it.
That is the difference.
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