By Cami Walters-Nihipali
Life—especially as a teen—moves like slow lava. While it modifies the landscape, shaping us into who we will be, it’s a slow and ever shifting process. Words from peers, from family, from teachers become the means to cool that lava into its shape. As an adolescent, I didn’t understand this slow transformation into the person I was becoming, and it’s only with my nearing half-of-a-century perspective I understand this. As a ten-year-old, however, I was busy dreaming up creative ways to become famous to put my tiny town on the map. My sexier ideas of fame were wrapped up in ideas of “firsts” like first actress from my hometown, or first female president of the United States. Always layered underneath however, as if it were a secret dream, was writer.
When I was thirteen, and the throws of adolescence hit, I decided to embrace the idea of being a writer, but I wasn’t going to be famous like Stephen King or Thomas Harris (yes, I was in a phase of reading horror), but rather I was going to be the tormented Emily Dickinson of my generation. I darkened my wardrobe, took to looking waif-ish and practiced being moody in mirrors I passed, but most of my time (when I wasn’t forced into manual drudgery of ranch life) was spent wasting away in the attic of the farmhouse where I was creating works of poetry and prose that would be marveled. My genius would be discovered—though I forgot to take into account that Dickinson wasn’t famous until after she had died. It was there, in the attic space filled with bats and mice that I wrote my first novel, all eighty pages of horrendous prose that focused on adolescent love at summer camp. The stuff of legend to be sure. (How Emily must have been laughing and probably still is wherever she may be in the afterlife). My mother fed the dream, of course, her blue eyes twinkling. “This is wonderful,” she said and put her arm around me. “You have talent. You are so special,” she said. In retrospect, her twinkling eyes must have been from the suppression of her amusement. Perfect coolant for that spot of lava to harden into black rock adding to the formative experience of reading her my short story when I’d been nine. My dream of writing solidified.
With my writing dream now solid rock in my adolescent brain transitioning toward an adult one, I filled my world with language heavy pursuits—and cheerleading. English, Creative Writing, AP English and AP History, Journalism, pretend social butterfly to make sure I fit in, reading and writing a bunch of poetry and new stories. By this time, I’d packed away my dream of being the next Emily Dickinson (because I realized she’d died unknown which no longer seemed as appealing), and moved onto historical romance novels. My poetry and prose were filled with love stories riddled with angst and unrequited love (like me). As an adolescent, dreams shift and maneuver around interests. I’m providing a condensed version because while my own dreams shifted and wrapped around ideas of what I thought I wanted because of flights of fancy, writing never waned. Poetry and prose remained a constant thread in my life because it brought me balance and grounding. It was something I continued to return to because it was like breathing. Somehow I made it to college (which is a bit of a miracle, but that’s a completely different story) and I declared English as my major (changed it to Political Science and changed it back to English).
Of course, I had my life planned out. After graduation from college, I was moving to one of the cities (New York was the dream, but Chicago or San Francisco were also acceptable) where I would find an entry level job in publishing. Then I met a boy.
And the life happened while I was busy making other plans.