I’m not really sure exactly when I realized that I’m a writer to be honest. I’ve always had a way with words, and my essays in school were always of good quality. So the ability was there, just nothing to really bring it to my awareness.
In my junior year of highschool, I took a class on journalism. I and two others who were excelling were given responsibility for the closed-circuit morning announcements and given only topics or statements, but as far as content was concerned nothing real.
In forty minutes we had to write, shoot, and produce a ten minute report. It was terrifying, but the exhilarating kind of terror. We had to trust our instincts and tell the story as it was, or it would all fall apart.
Somewhere in that time, I realized the under-the-gun pressure and ability to convey the exact message you need or want was something that I could find happiness doing. It wasn’t until college that I really considered myself a writer when I got to explore dramatic writing, prose poetry, and stream of consciousness writing. That diversification kept my wandering attention span entranced with the art.
As far as the discovery that writing fit me well, the credit goes to the two friends that struggled with me every day and the journalism teacher who always had a hot pot of coffee ready for class.