Nice To Meet Q
The story of my writing aspirations begins when I was but a small girl, though I don’t remember what my first plot attempts consisted of. All I know is that, when I was a middle-schooler, I ran into my first-grade teacher, who gave me a big hug and said, “You used to write me the cutest little stories!”
There is a vague memory of having concocted some sort of tale about two foxes who were brothers. One of them went by the name of Floppy Luggs. I can recall no further details.
Having a notebook (or two…three…okay, many) filled with silly, dramatic scribblings of an adolescent was critical to my being. More details of the plots that filled those pages have stuck with me, but I’ll refrain from sharing to save you from far too many cringe-worthy moments. At the time, I didn’t think too hard about what tropes I was using or what clichés I wanted to fit into my arcs. I can’t even say that my characters had arcs. I never got near to finishing anything resembling a manuscript then.
The point was simply to be writing, and that impulse and desire to write has been one of the most consistent things about me. Reading and writing, my two favorite hobbies. Words and words and what’s that? More words!
That’s why, when making decisions about college, it was a no-brainer to decide on majoring in English. Not only that, though, but a second major of Journalism with a concentration in Creative Writing. I started my first year at the University of Maine with focus on those studies, and I was one of those fortunate people who never wavered in that choice. I never had a crisis of doubt, agonizing over whether or not I should change majors.
Sometimes, when it’s brought up that I studied Journalism, it seems that people are surprised by it. Because, you know, it’s not like there was ever a time when I talked about how much I wanted to be a journalist or cover the news or what have you. I didn’t apply for that major even thinking I’d go into that line of work, which maybe sounds counter-productive, but I promise I had a line of reasoning.
And that reason was this: I wanted to grow in my skills as a writer, so I needed to put myself in situations where I’d get an awful lot of hands-on experience honing the craft.
Writing by Associated Press’s terms and conditions, though, is not quite the same as having and taking artistic license with my fiction, but it was incredibly educational. There was a lot to learn about the expectations of doing quality writing, telling a worthwhile story, at a snappier pace and how to navigate that. I say that studying Journalism was an education in asking questions, which I think is absolutely crucial to all writers. No matter your content. No matter your audience. No matter your purpose. Asking questions is a staple.
Of course, I also took classes that were specifically geared toward my concentration. There were different levels of Creative Writing. I took an excellent Poetry workshop my junior year. And the highlight of my academic career at UMaine was spending time on a thesis project as a senior. My project was, unsurprisingly, writing a novel. My very first!
I had a wonderful advisor and mentor, whom I met with frequently that whole year getting feedback, talking through different elements she had questions about, explaining my vision, and doing what I’d wanted as a freshman: growing as a writer. The time I got to spend with my advisor and dedicating myself to not only that form of learning but actually completing a manuscript that I could then query agents about was invaluable.
Here’s another reason why the experience has left such a mark on me: I was one of those students who seriously contemplated dropping out and told my mother so on more than one occasion. Being told what to read, what to learn, and having so many parameters set around what it meant to be a student was not enjoyable to me. My campus social life? The clubs and orchestra I got involved with? Absolutely. Give me those things every day of the week.
There was no joy for school, though, and I lost count of the number of times I prayed that I would find that spark, that enjoyment, again. Because, as a kid, I loved school. There were no tears from me on my first day of kindergarten, and my mom’s told me I would have happily started a year earlier because I was so eager to get to it. I was so eager to follow after my older siblings and learn.
The love was lost, along the way—and then my final year at UMaine brought me an opportunity I’d been waiting my whole life for. I needed the structure of an academic project to give me the momentum and discipline for finally finishing one of my stories. There was a great deal of consternation and labor and frustration that went into my thesis process, but can I tell you that the joy found me again? Can I tell you what an incredible thing that was?
In addition to my advisor, I had other phenomenal supporters in the form of my committee, and it was a delight to sit down with them at my thesis defense and discuss my book. It was like I’d shared an intricate piece of my brain with them, to which they said, “So, tell us more about it. We’re intrigued.” It was fun and insightful. Challenging yet encouraging.
Then there was graduation, though, and I was under no impression that I wouldn’t need a day job, despite wanting to be a full-time author. I’d wanted to stay in Maine so badly, but the door God opened for me led to St. Louis, Missouri.
I’d applied for an AmeriCorps position there at an education access non-profit with the intentions to live with family while I got professional experience and saved money. Making a go of it out on the East Coast wasn’t feasible, financially, and I hadn’t been ready to move back to Minnesota and, say, live in my mom’s basement.
So, St. Louis it was, and I spent five years in that town, working and growing and making some dear, dear memories with people I hope I get to love all my life. The writing was put more on the back-burner by the nature of having a job that left me drained at the end of the day. It was a good job, good work, yet that doesn’t change the fact that it didn’t always leave me with the energy for my projects. There was even a season in those five years when I worked three jobs, and I’m sure you can imagine how that wears a person down.
Still, in those five years, I was able to complete two, full-length novel manuscripts; a novella manuscript; and one poetry manuscript. During the early months of the pandemic, I found the time to refine and revise pieces of my thesis novel, cutting something like 25,000 words. I’ll also confess to penning too many words of fanfiction. I’m familiar with the process of querying an agent, which means I’m familiar with their rejection, too. I applied to MFA programs and faced more rejection there. I’m still trying to figure out if and when a grad program of that nature might have a role to play. My journey as a writer has never halted, and I’m proud of the ways I developed personally and professionally.
The plan was never to stay in St. Louis forever, and I’d figured, at some point in 2023, one final school year with the non-profit I was at would be enough. Come May/June of 2024, I’d pack up my apartment and move home to Minnesota.
Only, in the fall of 2023, I met this guy, and you know how it goes. It’s the plot twists you never see coming that mean the most. He’s goofy and sweet and looked an awful lot like my future husband.
Spoiler alert: that is, indeed, who he’s become.
And this darling man was also excited about the idea of moving north. It was a plan we both gave our stamp of approval on. How wonderful was that? Going home with the love of my life? Amazing.
Cue another plot twist!
An opportunity for orders in Germany was presented to my husband, who’s been in the Air Force eight years. When he called me up to tell me about them, he started by asking, “How would you feel about a year-long honeymoon in Europe?”
That, my friend, is where I’m writing this from now.
The second half of 2024 was an absolute whirlwind of waiting on the military and then uprooting our lives to move across the world and get ourselves situated in a new country. We’re still getting ourselves settled and are eagerly awaiting the arrival of our household goods. I cannot wait to sit at my writing desk once more and do my mad scribbling there.
In my head, I’d figured looking for a part-time job on base would be a necessary piece of the equation for this new life of ours. I thought, “Surely, there will be a library! I wouldn’t mind working at a library, at all!”
I talked about these things with my husband, and every time he responded with some iteration of this: “What if you just wrote, though? What if you spent the year being a writer in Europe?”
The reason he had to repeat those questions more than a few times was because, since I’ve never had such a golden opportunity like that, I wasn’t sure I fully believed that it was feasible now. I’d always had at least one job, oftentimes two. The responsibility of contributing financially to our family seemed a given to me. I’ve never been in a position to consider otherwise.
Yet, there was my husband, assuring me we’d be fine. Encouraging me to really give the life of a writer a consistent, energized go.
It feels more than a little crazy that I’m actually able to do this, to sit for hours during the middle of a weekday and dump thoughts and scenes out of my head onto a Word document. This experiment truly began at the beginning of this year, as I’ve only been over here since this past December, but what a hopeful start I’ve had to it. I’ve had a few days where I’ve struggled to be as productive as I wanted to be, yet, overall, the consistency is forming.
Which is why I decided to start this blog and engage on social media as a writer. The idea is, if I’m writing every day, having this channel of expression and putting myself out into the world shouldn’t be too much of a stretch.
If you’re reading this, that means you’re giving me and my first ramble a chance, and I wish I could adequately communicate just how grateful I am for that. I write not because I desire a vast audience; I write because I’d drive myself (and my husband) crazy if I didn’t. That I have the opportunity to share pieces of my life, pieces of my stories, and have a reader is not insignificant, though.
So, I’ll wrap up on a note of gratitude. Thank you for giving this a read. Thank you for giving me your time. It’s fair to say this little writer is beyond excited and hopeful for all the words I may get to share with you over this coming year.