Once Upon a Time...The 90 Day Challenge

Once upon a time, a young aspiring writer sat in her futon just before midnight to pound out her thoughts and practice the art of which she so desperately desired to master. Write, she had been told, every day for 90 days. If you can carve out 45 minutes every day to sit and write for 90 days straight, you have what it takes to be a writer. Because that's what writers do. They wake up every morning, or in this case, just before bed, and they sit and they write. If you struggle to be consistent with writing for 90 days, then writing probably isn't for you.

Or something like that.

Once upon a time, and by time I mean right now, that young writer was me. I went into my professor's office the other day to pour out my concerns of how maybe this writing class wasn't for me, at least not at this time, and I wondered if I should drop the class. A half hour later I learned that maybe I have what it takes to be a writer. Maybe. The only way I would find out is if I stuck out the class.

I start this blog entry with once upon a time, because even though it is the most horrible cliché in storytelling to start off with, I use it because it works. Ever notice how every story that has a happy ending starts with "once upon a time"? I'm sure there are exceptions to the rule, but I have yet to come across them and in my happy little world I prefer to keep it that way. I'm starting my 90 day writing challenge and I am starting it on a positive note. So that maybe one day I can look back and write "Once upon a time a young writer didn't know if she had what it takes to be a writer," and then it would eventually end with, "and she became the successful writer she always dreamed of being and lived happily ever after. The end." 

To be honest I've never been in a panic when it comes to writing. Up until this class, I was always fairly successful at it. I received As in all of my previous writing classes. My friends praised me for the notes I'd publish on facebook. I had an older blog in a which a few kind strangers would post how much they enjoyed reading it. My coach told me that the essay I wrote for a scholarship was one of the best he's ever read. When I was in 4th grade we wrote little fiction novels and I won an award for the work I had done. I learned to accept writing as my gift. 

Ironically it took me awhile longer to realize that I actually wanted to make a career out of it. I dreamed of being a veterinarian once. Or working in the music industry. There was also being a mailman or a librarian. I'm sure lawyer, teacher, and other random jobs also crossed my mind. Of course, none of those dreams lasted long. Especially when I hit high school. It became to clear to me that writing was where I could see myself going in life.

I remember the moment I decided to be a journalist. I was 15 years old, working my first job in the fine dinings of the fast food industry. At the time of my epiphany I was working in the back of McDonald's drive-thru, called extended. Most McDonald's employees dreaded extended. You are alone in the back, isolated, cut off from the rest of the crew, and unless you were under nice management, you weren't permitted to leave your confinement. I, on the other hand, enjoyed the solitary it gave me. Still growing out of my geeky middle school stage, I was shy and preferred to keep to myself. While the drive-thru was hell for others, I found it as my only form of sanctuary in the place I dreaded most.

It was a warm, sunny day when I was working. The kind I hated most. No one wants to be kept inside on a gorgeous afternoon. I had spent from 7am til 2pm sealed up in the walls of high school. I wanted fresh air and to enjoy what the day had to offer. I leaned outside the window, half my body hanging out trying to be apart of the nature I felt so distant from. As I clung to the small ounce of freedom I had, I couldn't help thinking, "One day I'll be out of here. This is not what I'll be doing the rest of my life." The only problem was, I didn't know what I did want to do with the rest of my life. 

I remember standing there and pondering over my future career. I knew 2 things: 1) I immensely enjoyed music. 2) I also immensely enjoyed writing. And I was good at it. Right then and there, it was difficult to choose. The idea of owning my own concert venue, or being a manager of a band, or working for a record company strongly appealed to me. But writing...writing I already knew I liked. And I already knew that I was somewhat good at it (if you're judging that by this blog entry then I most certainly apologize. You must surely find me a liar. I promise, I do better than this!). I had these two loves. What was I to choose? Until it hit me. I didn't have to choose. No. All I had to do was combine these two loves. I could use my writing skills to write about the musicians I adored. I could meet the musicians of my dreams and tell the world about them. It was, at the time, the most brilliant plan I had ever dreamed up. The goal to write for the Rolling Stone was born. 

And now here I am, five years later, far from the greasy confinement of McDonalds in my own new hell called fear and failure. Writing is no longer the fun little hobby I do on the side. It takes more than to just sit and spill my thoughts (again, contrary to this blog, I promise). My perfect As on papers have been reduced to barely Cs. I get nervous, tense, hurt, and uncomfortable. I sense failure in my future and I doubt my abilities. I'm terrified. Because I've realized this truly is what I want to do with my life. And I don't know if I have what it takes to do it. And the only way I'm going to get through this...

Is to write.