“I have wisdom for writing and reading.” – Nikki Solano, Grade 4 Journal Entry (January 20th, 1993)

At the age of nine, I knew myself better than most adults know themselves. I could recognize my talents and validate them effortlessly, and I could listen to my calling without care or concern for the opinions of others. The water in my fountain of youth babbled and danced merrily. It was invigoratingly fresh, crystal clear, and reflected my true self in its stillness.

I wish I could say that I took the craft of writing seriously from the time I attended grade school, or that I became some kind of a child prodigy in literature, but neither statement is true. Instead, I spent decades navigating multiple other roles—star student, active volunteer, helpful daughter, fun auntie, faithful wife, eager entrepreneur, endless explorer, and eternal enthusiast—and I lost sight of my wisdom for writing and reading in that maze. During my childhood, my interest in writing and reading was ever-present, though, and it sparked bursts of joy. My kindergarten years were spent publishing short stories that were bound with string and bracketed by covers of wallpaper-wrapped cardboard. I gave personalized poems as birthday and anniversary gifts to my loved ones, and I often canvassed streets in my neighborhood in search of strangers who would donate to causes related to my written works. When I would play make-believe house with my friends, the characters I assumed were stay-at-home moms blessed with time to write novels while raising their kids. And, when my friends and I pretended to own restaurants or stores, I cared more about the creation of menus and window advertisements than any product those items intended to sell. Reading also made me happy. When my grandma came to visit, I secretly hoped she would take me to the library, not the cinema. When I accompanied my mom on trips to the grocery store, I begged her to buy me comic books instead of candy at the checkout line. I was rarely seen without a book in my hand, as one to write in or read from was my faithful companion. Words were the best toys ever created, I believed, and reading and writing were playgrounds I couldn’t wait to get my hands on, climb over, and swing from. And, quite fearlessly I played back then, I’ll add.

“I slept only for two hours because I was up printing on my computer. I am going to end printing and start wrighting [sic]. The word of the day is: exhuberant [sic]. The sentence is: Some people are so exhuberant [sic] that they can’t control themselves, even when they want to.” – Nikki Solano, Grade 4 Journal Entry (January 20th, 1993)

I became a writer partway along my journey from curious kid to informed adult, around the same time that I learned how to spell the words “writing” and “exuberant” correctly. It wasn’t when I landed a particular writing job, when I received my first paycheck for a written work, or when an editor or publisher bestowed the righteous title of “author” upon me. It happened soon after I entertained Jordan Rosenfeld‘s teachings in her book, A Writer’s Guide to Persistence: How to Create a Lasting and Productive Writing Practice. Jordan taught me that a person becomes a writer when they give themself permission to be one. When someone’s desire to write, whether innate or learned, is insistent on being defined as just that—a desire; a strong wish or want—then the first step in becoming a writer is accepting that it’s the craft of writing that is wished for or wanted. I decided I was a writer on the same day that I realized life doesn’t teach us who to be, it merely provides us with opportunities to discover who we aren’t, so we can be content with who we have always been. Long before my life got busy and being myself got complicated, things were simple. I had wisdom for writing and reading at nine years old. In my 30s, I accepted that I wanted a career in writing and I gave myself the permission to pursue it.

I’ve been writing professionally for six years now, and in that time, the primary reason why I write hasn’t waned:

I write to appease my fourth-grade self—the perceptive, resilient, joyful girl who lives inside me and, to quote one of the most powerful voices I’ve ever heard, is “so exhuberant [sic] that they can’t control themselves, even when they want to.” I owe it to her to see her foresight, will, and determination through, and I owe it to my adult self to live the rest of my days in alignment with who I am.