This blog has documented my journey as an opinionated – yet eternally hopeful – twenty-something for the last three years. It has been molded and shaped into many things – many things that I had big plans for but not enough dedication to see through. Then it read like an online memoir, shining a harsh light on my flaws and mistakes as I navigated through these years of transition and change.
A few points about me: I grew up in Southern Utah with my happily married parents and my four siblings. My parents helped me cultivate a strong work-ethic through their entrepreneurship and dedication to their business. They instilled in me a passion for learning about and respecting differences in culture, people, and opinion. I grew up in a very faith-centered home and continue to keep and cherish our Mormon faith today.
Since I learned how, I have always written. I feasted on books in the school library and even remember sitting in a tiny plastic chair inside my preschool classroom with a small, cardboard book in my hands; relishing in the taste of words as I used my phonics to sort out their sounds and attach them to their meaning. I love language and the power of written word to produce profound imagery.
I love when a writer can awaken your taste buds by describing the distinct taste of melted butter soaking into each crispy ridge of slightly burned morning toast. I love being able to accompany characters on adventures to lands that don’t exist in our reality and defy the logic of our human circumstances. I love that I have lived a thousand lives by opening up my world through the power of reading and then further expanded it by entertaining my own stories and capturing my own adventures.
When I was probably 11 and in the awkward stages of leaving behind the creativity and imagination of girlhood to enter my teenage years, my mom found my journal. I distinctly remember the shock and shame I felt when she told me she read my journal. She had seen my writing for hours before bed, sometimes retiring early so that I could write. I never thought anyone would care enough about my inner-most thoughts to read my journal so I often left it on the floor or nightstand, ready for me to come home from school each day. With flushed cheeks and tears in her eyes, my mother began to praise me for my storytelling. She looked at me and said, “you are going to be a writer”. It all felt so awkward to me. I wished that I had been a normal child and wrote mean things about my siblings and then logged what I had eaten that day when I ran out of things to talk about. No, I had written detailed stories of princesses in less-than-favorable circumstances. I had written of English castles and far off places that I had not yet seen. As I was leaving the magic of girlhood behind to slowly join my friends in teenaged angst, I had kept a secret journal detailing a secret world that I created just for me.
When my mom told that I was going to become I writer, I simply thought, “ok”. I fostered my writing skills throughout the years, occasionally showing my mom snippets of short stories and lying by saying that they were for school (they weren’t, I just wanted someone to know that I had written them). A particularly fierce and disliked English teacher at my high school became my favorite and most inspirational teacher as she helped refine my writing skills. She believed in me and to have this intimidating teacher’s approval meant the world.
Throughout college I have been shaped by wonderful professors in all facets of the writing world. I was lucky to work with professors in London who had built successful careers as journalists for major publications. They believed in me and fought for me when I couldn’t quite see greatness in myself. London gave me the tools to come out of my shell. It showed me that, even though I am a woman who lives in a conservative small town in the States and who – when it comes down to it – wants the simple joys of family and rural life to settle down in; I have the capacity, the strength, the character, and the wit to make writing as a profession a reality. That as a woman, I can have it all.
So I guess that’s my long-winded way of saying, I am here to write. I am here to let you see my soul, because there is no way around it. To see my words on a page is to see my bare soul laid out in front of you. I am here to let you in and see a glimpse inside the world I’ve been creating, fostering, caring for since I was five years old. Welcome.