A funny realization came to me the other day.
In high school, I was known for being good at writing. I say this very matter-of-factly, but let's put it this way: My essays were saved as samples by my AP English teacher. I received our school's English Department award during my senior year. I was a frequently published staff writer for the school newspaper and eventually climbed the ranks to Editor in Chief.
One other thing -- back in the day, Xanga was a big deal. In my social circles, you weren't in the loop unless you also owned one of those clunkily laid-out blogs where the music starts loading automatically. Everyone had one --- even if the posts were relegated to purposefully misspelled laments about how much life sucked.
My point is, it was known. Any of my friends or classmates could pick up a copy of the school newspaper or scroll through my Xanga (or even if this blog, if they were privileged enough to know about it) to get a sample of my writing.
It only occurred to me recently that my college and medical school friends don't really know this facet of me. Not in the same way my high school acquaintances did. Outside of the classmates work-shopping my essays and stories in English classes, people weren't reading my stuff. I wasn't showing my work to my friends. They probably knew it was my hobby, but that's just it -- a hobby. They don't see how obsessive my mind has been about it, underneath all my pre-med and medical busywork.
Which is why when one of my college friends recently asked me about my ten-year goals, she was completely shocked to learn I'd been working on a novel for years. Which is ironic to me, because this project has consumed so much of brain-space for the past decade. Like, do you even know me?
But that's not fair to her. Because I don't really talk about it. I don't know why.
I've been thinking about why I've inadvertently been keeping all this a secret. Maybe it's because I'm too sensitive. I remember once, a friend asked me what my story was about. I was awful at pitching, and approximately one sentence into describing it to her, I could already sense her brain glazing over. And that feeling of inadequacy sucked.
There are two people who will ask me about my writing when I see them in person. One is Graydyl. The other is Astrid. I can't even begin to explain how it feels to know that somebody out there is rooting for me. Because this path is littered with frustrations.
Anyhoo, this post has been brought to you by: Sophelia is stuck in a rut and debating whether or not she needs to find a critique partner (or even a beta reader), even though she's tried it three times with no luck. Womp womp.
