I’m Not Pretending Now
When I was a little girl, pretend was my favorite game. I pretended I was a waitress lady or a grocery cashier. I had an apron with pockets that held my order pad and a pen. I clomped around in my too-big high heels to take people’s orders. When it was time for my patrons to pay their bills, I mashed the buttons on my grandma’s adding machine, told them their total, and reminded them to leave a tip. Or, I’d give people items from around the house and ask them to come through my line to check out their groceries, and I’d ring them up using that same adding machine and the top drawer of my Grandma’s desk as my cash register.
I pretended I was a teacher or a mom. I had stuffed animals and dollies that were my students or my babies, all lined up in a row, listening attentively as I pretended to read to them, until my little brother was old enough to participate. I’d trade him time, playing GI Joes or Matchbox cars with him, so he could be my student while I taught him things during our pretend school day. Neither of us had been in school yet, so my idea of school was shaped by what I’d seen on TV or from my own imagination. I was an enthusiastic teacher and always an eager pupil.
I pretended I was a character in one of the soap operas my grandma watched. There’s even a picture of me where I tied myself to my little rocking chair, wrapped a scarf around my mouth as a gag, and pretended I was kidnapped–just like the pretty lady on the soap opera. I pretended to read before I knew how to actually do it, flipping through books and magazines, absorbing the squiggles and pictures on the pages, and of course, I pretended to write.
I had access to all the paper and pens or pencils I wanted at home and at Grandma and Grandpa’s house. But I also had access to Grandma’s manual typewriter when I was with her. She’d take the lid off the typewriter for me. I’d carefully feed the paper into the machine, winding it around the platen, lining it up, just like Grandma showed me, and then I’d type away on the keyboard filling up page after page of the equivalent of pencil scribbles on paper. I didn’t know how to read yet, so I certainly didn’t know how to write yet, either. But when I used that old typewriter, I sat a little taller in my seat. I was a little sharper. I felt important. I couldn’t be bothered when I was busy doing my work. I was a writer.
I’ve been a writer since before I could write. In elementary school, I wrote books for children. I wrote plays for my classmates and me to act out. I wrote poetry. And I always looked for an audience to share my writing with. I was in third grade when I got my first diary. It was blue and had fancy gold writing on the front that said, “My Diary”. It had a little brass lock and key. I wrote in my diary every day until my brother told me he’d picked the lock and read all my secrets. I switched from something so obvious to a spiral notebook. I journaled every night before I went to bed, and anytime something made me really happy or sad or upset. Journaling was a good way for me to process big emotions that I didn’t otherwise know how to handle. Of course, my journal writing often consisted of writing about the boys I had crushes on or the girls I wanted to be more like. I wrote about the days that exceeded expectations and the ones that let me down. And, I kept coming back to story writing.
In 7th grade, I found journalism and that became my new greatest love. I studied journalism throughout the rest of my K-12 education and went off to college with the plan of becoming a print journalist. I was on the newspaper staff at my community college and at the university when I transferred and was working on earning my bachelor’s degree. While I wrote for all the sections of the newspaper, feature writing was where I found my home. It was most like the writing I did every day. The storytelling of feature writing called me.
While I didn’t become a journalist, I have never stopped writing. I still journal regularly. I still write poetry sometimes. My daughter bought me a replica Royal typewriter for my birthday two years ago. I still plunk away on a typewriter, sitting a little taller, taking myself a little more seriously. I have stories to tell, feelings to share, characters knocking around in my head waiting to be let out into the world. The only difference is I’m not pretending now. I am a writer because I don’t know how to be anything else.
