Looking back now, I could see the signs. But not then.
When others little boys were running to softball practice, I was writing lyrics with my friend, Sally, to a song we were going to use in a neighborhood show. Proceeds from the production ($20.42) were to given to those poor children less fortunate than us at Children's Hospital.
Then there was the time I wore my sister's name. I'd helped her with a homework assignment to write a short story. (She used to get my brother to do her penmanship homework too.) I ghosted the story and she wrote it down. By the way, it was later selected for publication in the local Red Cross chapter's newsletter. But my secret was still safe.
In high school, I assumed the reins of the school's creative writing publication. Actually, I had no competition for the role but it would make me eligible to "letter" and I could wear one of those cool jackets (unfortunately, they only came in one color). It was five mimeographed sheets stapled together in the corner. Nothing like the smell of fresh, wet mimeo fluid in the morning. Of course, when I finished it became "Prism--the Creative Arts Magazine" that went beyond the mere word and now included art and sheet music (I have no idea what the song sounded like but hey, it was for our art). I think we sold 14 copies. I finally threw out the other 100 we duplicated. It will make the circulated ones worth more on eBay--some day.
In college, my undergraduate honors thesis was entitled, "Making Snowflakes from Words--Encouraging Creative Thought in the Elementary School Classroom." You'd think that would have been an obvious sign but hey, it was the 70s and our credo was Marlo Thomas' Free to Be You and Me.
When I got to the corporate world, a boss of mine discovered my secret. I was working on an insurance piece on some death benefit. No one could sell doom and gloom better than me, after all that's high drama stuff. He came up to me and just said it, "You know, you're a good writer." I told him I liked numbers, not words. He knew better.
It wasn't until I was nearing my 50s when I started seeing the signs too. I was in a nine-year marriage as a Product Manager in the Actuarial department (those are the guys that figure out how much to charge you for an insurance policy). It just wasn't working out. It was so wrong, on so many fronts.
I started noticing those people from Advertising. I'd worked with them often on projects so I knew them. I'd find myself staring at them just a little too long during a meeting. They'd catch me looking at them. I'd quickly turn away.
I started trolling the nonprofit scene. They needed someone to do their marketing. That including writing copy for brochures, the website, press releases. It was after hours, who was going to know. It felt good. It was so different from what I was doing. Perhaps out of desperation, perhaps because I was so unhappy, I listened to the voice inside. It told me this is where I belong. I could write.
So I did it. I joined the club. I was loud, proud and out. I confided my secret to friends, one-by-one, but was surprised to find I was the last to know. Apparently they had conversations with the voice inside my head.
Now as a writer in the corporate world (yeah, I get paid for this stuff), I am constantly challenged by the prospect of a blank Word document. My father used a hammer and nails, I use what's in my head to create something from where there was nothing. I know some copy about vanishing insurance premiums won't change the world. Most probably don't even read it.
But I know it's there. I read the signs.
