I got my start as a writer in the sixth grade. I won third place in the "What does the flag mean to you?" Memorial Day contest at the El Cajon Elks Lodge.
I don't remember what I wrote – probably some jingoistic platitudes about freedom and liberty.
I do remember my mom made me wear a nice shirt and pants, even though it was 1000º in the late May suburban San Diego shade.
And, I won $25. Boo-yah!
I was supposed to use it for "education," but I'm sure I spent it at Tower Records on 45s by the Dazz Band, Musical Youth, and Hall & Oates.
As a Philosophy major in college I wrote a lot of bad papers. One time, I argued for a better grade and the professor reread my paper and said he'd lower my grade if he could.
Ouch.
But I carried on, experimenting with the written word in all kinds of contexts and with all kinds of subject matter and for all kinds of audiences.
Even now that I get paid to write, and teach storytelling, and coach people how to write, and edit writing that's written poorly, and encourage people to make their good writing totally fucking awesome, I still feel like I'm continually learning.
Still developing my voice. Still crafting my style. Still moving in and out of inspiration.
And, I'm okay with that. I guess that's what it means to be a writer.