At Odyssey we allow our writers to delve into any and all topics of their choosing. Yeah, that's right. You get to write whatever you want.
Many people are under the impression that writing is hard, and that you have to have the premeditated gift of Dickens to be published. That's not true. To prove it, here's my story. This is why I love to write.
I was 6, and I was really tired of cereal. Mom and dad were bustling around the kitchen bickering about some trivial thing, and Jackson, my 2-year-old brother, was throwing cereal at the wall. I hear ya, buddy. I don't like them either. I swirled my glop of milk-soaked flakes in my lackluster bowl, trying to figure out how I could feed it to the cat without anyone seeing.
"Kelsey, time for school," my mother quipped.
I rolled my eyes and grabbed my backpack, laced up my shoes, and adjusted my plaid uniform skirt. I couldn't help but think of all the things I'd rather be doing than going to school, like eating more glop or finishing an entire bowl of green peas without complaining.
We got in the car and Mom looked into her rear-view mirror to glare at me.
"Kelsey, did you do your homework?" Crap. No. I bit my lip and nodded, hoping she wouldn't pry. She didn't. She just let me out at the parking lot and drove off. Phew.
I adjusted my skirt one more time so the teachers wouldn't yell at me and trudged through the ominous double doors of St. Luke's and sat down at my desk. Mrs. Shepp, my favorite teacher, came up to me and asked me how I was.
I shrugged, "I'm okay." She smiled and her eyes crinkled at the corners like she'd had a life full of laughter. She patted me on the back and walked to the front of the room, beginning class instruction. I zoned out the rest of the day.
"Kelsey, Kelsey?" I heard Mrs. Shepp say as she shook my shoulder. I opened my eyes and looked at the clock. Great, school was over. I grabbed my backpack and started to walk towards the door when Mrs. Shepp cleared her throat.
"Kelsey?" I turned around.
"Do you like to read?" No. I hated reading. I shook my head. She smiled in that motherly way of hers and walked to her desk. She took out a book and handed it to me.
"Do me a favor and read this. The main character reminds me of you." I grabbed it and raised an eyebrow, wondering what she was getting at.
"Uh ... O-okay. Thanks." I took the book and went home. Dad picked me up. He asked what I had in my hand. I realized that I was still holding the book.
"A book?! Who got you to pick up a book?" he said.
"Mrs. Shepp."
"Well, bless her heart."
I gave my dad a sassy glare and got out of the car. I plopped down on the couch, waiting for him to hassle me about chores. What could it hurt, reading just a little?
I picked it up and read. And read. And read. The next time I looked up, it was four and a half hours later, and I was done. It turned out that I was a fast reader. I couldn't wait to tell Mrs. Shepp.
I ran into her classroom 15 minutes early the next day to tell her about how much I had loved the book. "Mrs. Shepp," I said, "Juniper is so amazing. She's so brave. She's my hero." Mrs. Shepp smiled, took the book back, and handed me another. I looked back at her and smiled. I read the book non-stop for the rest of the day.
This routine repeated for the rest of the school year. She would funnel books my way, trying to feed my newfound passion. I would read day in and day out, sometimes so late into the night that the sun rose before I fell asleep. Around the end of the year, Mrs. Shepp took it a step further.
"Have you ever thought about writing?" she asked me. I laughed and blinked incredulously at her. Me? A writer? How funny.
"No, I'm serious, Kelsey. You have a real gift." I shrugged, packing up my book bag to go home for the day. "Do me a favor and write for this contest. I believe in you." I stared at her and tentatively took the paper that outlined the submission requirements.
I went home and wrote, not really expecting anything out of it. Two weeks later I got a letter telling me that I'd won first place and that I was going to be honored at a dinner. What? Me? Are they blind?
Mrs. Shepp was beside herself. She danced around the classroom, singing and laughing. She was so excited. She asked me to do another contest, so I did. I continued doing contests through middle school and on into high school.
I started out writing about things like what It's like to be an American or being a girl. As my passion and prowess grew, I began to branch out and learn about the world around me. I explored Darwin's evolutionary theory and conflicting values of Intelligent Design. I researched Greek gods and the evolution of feminism in journalism. I started to pick up a following of people who read everything I wrote. I created a blog and published weekly pieces and eventually got picked up by The Odyssey.
As a writer, I get to spend my days learning. I get to choose what I want to write about and I get to share my ideas and connect with people. Everything is story fodder: my love life, my classes, my opinions, my world. I'm a student of life, and I get to share my perspective with people about what's going on in the world. I get to share pieces of my life in 500 words with an audience that starts conversations and appreciates my work.
The key to being a writer is igniting a passionate flame in yourself. Sometimes you might need a catalyst, which is okay. For me, it was Mrs. Shepp. She saw something in me that I would never have seen in myself and pushed me to try something new; something that would eventually become the reason I'm alive—the reason I'm happy. Writing is a vehicle for freedom and self-expression. In the famous words of Seamus Heaney: "I've always associated the moment of writing with a moment of lift, of joy, of unexpected reward."
