It was my first semester as a college student. At 9:40 AM every Tuesday and Thursday, I rode the T to Ayres Hall on top of The Hill from my dorm room for my English class. It was in this class, given by a pretentious gay prick, that I realized I HAD TO WRITE.
I had written many things before: stories, journal entries, anecdotes, long letters to my friends and family. I just never realized how much I enjoyed it. This class taught me the love of literature and of conveying my ideas to someone else. I fell in love with Kate Chopin in this class. Edith Wharton, Jane Austen, Virginia Wolfe. And eventually, Ernest Hemingway.
We were assigned to read Hills Like White Elephants.
God, that story completely turned everything around for me. I loved it. Hemingway had such a way of writing. You saw glimpses of a life, a person, that gave you their entire persona. When I finished this short story, I shivered. It was almost an out of body experience for me.
I was there at that train station, it was hot, and I was drinking my licorice drink. I was convincing Jig she had to have that abortion. I was Jig resigning to someone else's will so they would still love me.
I wanted to write like that. I wanted people to read my words and completely fall into my stories, wanting more as they read the last word to themselves.
One day. One day. I write. I write constantly. One day, I will see my work in print.