(Published as a private Facebook post, decided to share)
I have written so many pieces in the last few days. People have applauded me, complimented me on how I was able to articulate and process certain events. I was even urged to write a book. My response, thanks but I’m not a writer. Want to know why?
In 11th and 12th grade I was told by 2 different teachers that I wasn’t a writer. In 12th grade, I was told by my advance English teacher that I wrote like a 5th grader and given a pass to see my counselor to drop in College Prep class and out of her class. I did. I thought I overcame that but today I’m realizing that those words still haunt me.
In college, freshman English I had a (white) professor that told me, I write like I was afraid to write. She asked me if someone told me I was a bad writer because it was coming out in my papers. Yes, I said, alas I was free I thought.
When I decided to be a journalist, I had to choose a path. Print or electronic media. Freed from my burden of not being told I’m not a good writer, I chose…electronic. Why? Because (narrative change) I don’t like to write.
(Pause. I was going to say I steered away from writing because I didn’t see any Black writers on my school paper, but I didn’t see any black people on my college radio station either yet I made WRMU my home. So as you can see I still struggle here.)
Luckily, I still had to learn both print and radio reporting. But when it came time to start Black Girl, I immediately looked for writers. Why? Because I never intended to write. I wanted to bury my stories behind other people’s stories. I even reached out to other bloggers to teach me how to blog because… I’m not….nope, not to affirm that again. I didn’t think I could write. I didn’t think I was good enough.
So Here’s What I Know (dramatic pause for those who know what happens after I say that)
I know- In the 5th grade, I won a city-wide essay contest, Shaker’s Dr. King contest. We had a choice to make a poster or write an essay and I remember being one of the only kids in my class choosing the essay.
In Middle School, I was part of my school’s literary magazine. I stayed after school to help go through submissions and prose to determine what should be included. I remember wanting to and attending a couple of meeting to be part of my high school’s magazine or paper but something had changed and writing was a chore.
In undergrad, I remember staying up all night working on a newspaper project. My classmates (male and female) laying on my floor well past visiting hours trying to get something done. I also remember Black professor, a visiting professor from some random gen req class, wanting to connect me with an editor or big wig at the Call and Post but I passed because… you know.
Even now I am contemplating deleting all of this and not clicking the post button. Are there too many typos? What will people think? Will someone think I need to step away from the laptop (I’m about to.)
I know- people many people are offering to pay me my asking price to ghostwrite and I’m like uh maybe you should reach out to… (Boy, those teachers did a number on teenage Shana)
I know- there are words and books trapped inside of me. I know I’m supposed to be writing a couple of books and some of you are waiting for me to start or finish something. I know I have had multiple publishers show interest in my book outlines. I know I have a project to complete for Twelve Literary Arts and I know that I am dealing with the most epic case of Imposter syndrome.
So is this my breakthrough moment? Nope, don’t think so. I hope so. So I ask for my group of encouragers to keep encouraging and keep opening up the doors to new opportunities. I will commit to refraining my words and continue to battle my writing demons.