My Writing Story | Welcome to The Quiet Writer's Desk

It's where it all began for me: a small, girlish room with sky-blue walls and horse border, bunk beds, dolls, an old black notebook, and Jo March. 

I'm a writer, dreamer, empathy-lover, shy, quiet, woman of few words - except when it comes to writing stories. 

For years I thought because I was shy and quiet and too afraid to talk that I was wrong. I thought I shouldn't be that way because the world was this howling mess telling me I should be more like my friends who were so fearless, so talkative, so - not alone.

But I discovered writing as a way to be myself and say what was on my heart. Writing helped me to understand . . . everything.

When I was twelve years old I had a identity crisis. I was twelve years old and I was already worried about who I was, what I was going to be. I am not sure why I thought I needed to decide what I was going to be right at that moment in my life, but I think it turned out to be a good thing.

I was an introvert, but didn't know it. I was surrounded by lots of people who were out-going, knew exactly what to say, and were not shy in the least. It took a considerable amount of time before I was not afraid to order my own food at a restaurant, check-out all by myself at the store, or even answer the phone(which I still do not like to do).

When I was twelve, I had hardly even begun to conquer any of those fears, and I knew it. So I had a identity crisis. Failure, self-doubt, trepidation. I hated math and science, and the only things I loved in life at this point were history, reading, horses, American Girl dolls, piano, and being an all around tom boy with my big brother. I knew none of these things were especially helpful in the line of deciding what I wanted to be when I grew up.

I spent a great deal of time inside my head without really doing anything but imagining myself in exciting, often historical, scenarios. Mostly, I wanted to be an Indian.

The only other thing that fascinated me was Jo March, and her romantic life as a writer. I had an old black leather-ish binder my grandmother didn't want and it looked old fashioned and sort of like Jo's. So I filched some lined paper from my mother's school cabinet, which was off limits to all her creative children who cared little about order and neatness, and wrote down a scene in my head.

I can remember trying to write a story about a princess and a horse when I was seven or eight, but I also remember telling someone in my family I was writing a story and seeing their skeptical look, and hearing their, “Oh. That's nice.” I could also read their mind—“That'll be the day.” My confidence was ruined and I gave up the prospect.

And so, after writing a full page in the notebook, I came to a sudden halt. I couldn't finish it. Didn't even know how to finish it . . . didn't even know how to begin. But I did know: I loved writing

Writing gave me an escape. In writing I could say exactly what I meant, I could actually SPEAK on the page and see what was going on inside my head. I wasn't shy when I wrote, I was bold and free to be myself, or anyone I wanted to be. I could be anyone in the space of time—I could make up my own people. I could write about horses and girls who were tom boys and didn't care what other people thought. 

I wrote mainly for myself for the first few years because I was so free and it made me so terribly happy. But as all writers, there came those dreaded in between times when I could not write anything. There were no words. And because here was something I loved to do, at last, and I could not NOT do it. I loved it so much I didn't understand why I would get up to do it and not be able to write a single word.

So I hid in the bathroom and let the tears flow at the age of twelve, and I asked God, “Please, what do you want me to do? I'll do and be whatever you want me to.” I was so utterly convinced that I was an utter failure at writing I was going to give it up. It was such a pivotal moment, because to my confusion and great happiness, I knew, without a doubt the moment I asked it, I was to be a writer. That often still and small voice that you know to be God speaking above hurt and failure and lack of confidence came and assured me softly.

A writer I would be, then.

I wrote anything and everything and finished nothing. Accept for a retelling of horse camp story called Becca, and a short Christmas story called Because of Miss Silver Jacket. Both of which I was proud of to a certain extent. 

But I discovered when I told people that I was writing—it lost its magic entirely. Once I told them what it was about, hook, line, and climax, I suddenly had no one to write it for and no reason to write it. They knew the ending and so did I, so why write it? Both very bad reasons not to write something, but stole the magic they did, and I stopped telling people about my stories.

But I would talk about writing and my family knew, quite clearly, that I was a writer. That I loved writing. My parents helped me purchase my first writing course, One Year Adventure Novel, and that's when my writing took a turn for the better. My writing filled every drawer in my desk, notebooks overflowed from my room into the family room. I had boxes and boxes of half-written stories and random papers with single scenes, characters who didn't have a story yet—my writing was everywhere. Just ask my sister who shared a room with me. I never threw anything away. It was proof of purpose, it was imagination and possibilities, of stories and adventures yet to had. People and places I could not do without. Daydreams and heartaches. Everything I loved was in those messy, cluttered piles of notebooks and pens.

My family knew for certain how much I loved writing and never needed to ask me what I wanted to do when I grew up. A writer.

I think I shall always be one. 

But that's just part of the story. 

 " . . . now at last they were beginning Chapter One of the Great Story which no one on earth has read: which goes on for ever: in which every chapter is better than the one before.” ― C.S. Lewis

Let me just hug you, brave writer with a quiet hope and a big voice, and let's go on from here with courage in our step. For there's a writer's heart in you, and a writer's heart is not easily broken.

Love, Kayla

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