By Cami Walters-Nihipali
A writer’s life is romanticized, but let’s be real, it isn’t glamorous. I think we could traipse through history and dog-ear a bunch of those writer stories: “Died in obscurity,” “Writing wasn’t discovered until death.” Grim right. However, this hasn’t stopped me, which either says something about being morbid, or is a testament to the idea that writing is as important as breathing regardless of the outlook. A glutton for punishment. Maybe. But damn, I love it.
I’m not alone or unique. Chances are, you’re here on this page because you’re also a writer. Like calls to like, yes?
I figured, perhaps, I should introduce myself and why what I say matters (it doesn’t. Not really. I just like to think it does).
When did my writing journey begin?
I don’t remember writing so much as the idea of story. My mom read to me as a child and storytelling seemed to be an important facet of being a part of my family life whether it was my grandpa singing barbershop quartet, my extended family laughing while hanging about in a living room reminiscing, or circled up around a campfire remembering life “way back when.” Story thrived in between the pauses, the words, the laughter, the songs. Story swirled like magic in the spaces of the Thanksgiving dinner table or at the family BBQ where the children raced between adults “talking story.” The magic of story was built into my essence long before I picked up a book or a pen.
Reading is crucial to a writer’s journey. YOU MUST READ if you want to write. It is reading that teaches us the rhythms of language, the power of words, the misappropriation of tools to break a story. We learn by reading. What are you reading now?
I discovered books for myself, adding to the way story was already immersed in my bones. I was seven or eight and my school librarian pulled Ramona, the Pest by Beverly Cleary from the shelf for me. I cracked open that book, discovered I had the ability to read it as well as understand it myself, and I was lost forever to the magic of good book. I have been ever since. I read and read and read; it is as much a part of my ability to breathe as writing.
But what about the writing, you ask?
A truth: I can’t have one without the other, because my writing journey was born from my reading journey. I wrote my first story when I was around eight or nine, after I’d been through every Beverly Cleary book and had moved onto new authors and new worlds. It was an old-soul tale about a war vet off to visit his war buddy. They’d long set the date of their reunion before the war even ended and so our protagonist was on his way to honor the promise. The twist, however, is that the friend is in a cemetery, passed away, and our protagonist honored the promise anyway. I read it to my mom who gushed and cried and told me she loved it—as moms are supposed to do—and my love for writing story and the power of telling it was born.
“If you don’t have time to read, you don’t have the time (or the tools) to write. Simple as that.”
The journey doesn’t end there, so I leave the next part for the next blog. Hemingway wrote in A Moveable Feast, “I always worked until I had something done, and I always stopped when I knew what was going to happen next. That way I could be sure of going on the next day.”
So, I’ll stop here for now, so I can be sure of where I’m going next week.