I mentioned in a previous blog that I had an English teacher tell me when I was in high school that I would never be a writer. I have to tell you that I believed this teacher for most of my life. However, today while I was going through some boxes of old memories and sorting though piles of research papers and journals that I had written, it dawned on me…I already AM a writer.
How did I miss this for so many years? Why have I doubted that I could put words into some kind of enjoyable or even just coherent reading material for someone else? Did having two short stories that I wrote appear in a small magazine not help at all? Did having a college professor offer to write a letter of recommendation for me mean I was an incapable human?
In case you were wondering, I struggle with self doubt. I’ve always known that I was bad at math and good at English. Why? I don’t know. Someone may have suggested it, and it turned into fact. Although I found an old report card of mine from middle school that showed my receiving a C one semester in English while receiving an A in math that same semester. What in the world??? How can this be? I’m not good at math! I’m good at English! What kind of crazy pressure have I put on myself since I was in school? Is it that first born thing I’ve read about?
Oh, wait…honor roll report cards from high school tell another story. I some how managed to make mostly A’s and a few B’s in all the subjects that I took. What?!
I don’t even know who I am anymore!
Having a minor personal identity crisis,