Undiscovered

I think I knew from a very young age that I was fated to be a writer, though I thought I was destined to be anything but. An artist, perhaps? Dancer maybe? Fighter pilot, nurse, forensic scientist…the possibilities seemed endless to me as a child. And I could have well been any of those, if I’d had a little more inclination about it. I suppose children fancy being many things about what they will be when they grow up; others just always seem to know.

So, what of writing then? Over the years, life guided me to and from one or another destiny I thought was meant to be. But from the beginning, and in the end, there was one constant: writing! For years, I have chased and tried to create destinies. But the fate that has followed me and silently guided me through the years is the one path where all others converged. Writing has been the cornerstone of it all.

My first published piece was a winter- and holiday-themed poem we were forced to write in my third-grade class in New York. I vividly remember the assignment and did not want to participate. I scribbled out something quickly, not knowing what I wrote would later be printed for all to read! A lesson I now frequently preach: actions have consequences! Hahahahaha! Nonetheless, I am glad for the printing!

Nannie (my grandmother, my biological father’s mother) was proud of it, though, and kept the thin little booklet containing my “stupid poem”, passing it on to me along with some other treasures she had accumulated over the years. It’s almost as if she knew it would be important someday! Well, it turned out to be important to me, anyway. The cover art on the booklet was drawn by one of my two best friends at the time, Miyuki Oku (Cheryl Wong, being the other), and that booklet is the only memento I have left of my childhood with them. The three of us were inseparable, and I often think of them, wondering if I ever cross their minds the way they do mine.

In high school, I wrote for The Quill—our literary magazine—and spent multiple years on the yearbook staff. Additionally, I had a Creative Writing class first thing in the morning, and there are two essential things about that. First, that Creative Writing class is the only formal and structured creative writing class I’ve ever had. Ever. Perhaps that’s clear in my writing ability, perhaps not. I’ve had many other writing classes, but they’ve all been geared towards research and scholarly writing. Second, it was in that class that I received the most constructive criticism on my writing from a specific individual, whom I will keep anonymous for his sake and who remains very dear to me (thank you —you know who you are!). He is the reason I continually work and rework pieces until I am satisfied with them (and why I also trust my instincts to leave certain pieces alone).

Today, on my bookshelves, you’ll find numerous journals filled with poems, prose, and short stories written in my hand, some in plain print, others in cursive, many in calligraphy. Mood often dictated the style I wrote in and how quickly I needed to get thoughts to paper. These days, however, I do less physical journal-keeping and more online writing, if only for the simplicity of editing, organisation, and retrieval.

From the beginning, I think I knew I would always be a writer. I tried to be other things. I had a successful career in retail management. I have a certificate in Early Childhood Education, a vocational diploma in nursing (LPN), which provided a fulfilling career as a paediatric nurse for a solid 10 years, and two Bachelor of Science degrees in Forensics and Criminal Psychology. They were all satisfying and I learnt a lot from each of these endeavours. But I thought I was destined for each of these, and I was wrong. In the end, I always end up back at writing. Fate leaves me with no other option. It’s simply what I am meant to do. It’s where I always end up. Not because I can’t do anything else. I’ve more than proven I can do many other things. Writing is just at my core.

Looking back, I don’t think the eight-year-old me who wrote that “stupid poem” in third grade would believe me if I told her how vital that poem would be later in her life. But it turned out to be an essential part of the journey. And if the fates allow, maybe my publications list will grow beyond that thin little booklet with a poem that was scribbled in haste!