My formative experiences as a writer

I remember a book with a well worn spine and a faded illustration of a lion on its cover. The lion was cartoonish in nature with its paws flared wide and a flowing robe of royal red, adorned with various golden ornaments and jewelry. This image is never fully in my mind, rather on a revolving track only to be remembered in certain moments. The lion on the cover has no name, and neither does the book. I couldn’t tell you one sentence from the book, and find it impossible to recall other illustrations, so instead I always focus on the cover. My grandma introduced me to this mysterious book, along with the art of reading at a very young age. My parents worked long hours, my dad was a data analyst at a large health care company, and my mom was an art teacher at a catholic grade school. Around the age of 4 or 5 my moms parents offered to watch my sister and I during the days where work got in the way of responsible parenting. It was then where my grandma started to introduce me to children’s books that were easy to teach, such as the one with a lion on its cover. 

I proudly identify my grandma as being the origin of my love for reading and writing. In his essay “Why I Write”, George Orwell recalls that an author’s “subject matter will be determined by the age he lives in – at least this is true in tumultuous, revolutionary ages like our own” (Orwell 1946). Orwell explains that your natural motivation to write is influenced heavily by the manner in which you grew up, and if you begin to disregard your childhood, your impulse to write will slowly waste away. I bring this up because I truly don’t think I’d be the writer I am today without my grandma reading out old english words from behind my shoulder as a child. She is one of three people in my life that have actively molded who I am today as a scholar, the other two being my parents as a collective and my college advisor Dr. Salvatore Pane. I think of all three as grand “revealers” of my character and potential, as if they batted away the fog that hung heavy in front of my identity and self confidence.  

My mother is an art teacher, finding most of her fulfillment from illuminating children of all ages to the beautiful activity of artistic expression. She finds a calling in offering herself to others, never keeping a tactic or shortcut a secret from her class. Being an educator is a part of her identity, and a characteristic that has directly affected how I developed as a writer. One formative experience with my mother occurred all the way back in grade school. I was practicing for a spelling test in my bedroom with my mom, and I turned into a self-destructive mess when I got a few words wrong. It’s impossible to remember the exact words I was beating myself up over, but I do remember that after one run through of the words, I got around two or three wrong. 

My mother reacted as most supportive parents would, “wow Jake you only got three words wrong out of 15, way to go”, but in my head back in those days, anything less than perfect meant something similar to the end of the world. My mother always tells me how I went on a tangent about how I’ll be homeless and won’t get into any colleges, that I didn’t have a future in the world. All because of a practice elementary school spelling test that I didn’t get 100% on. This is a defining moment to me because it taught me always striving for perfection can really beat you down mentally and physically. Instead of attempting to do things perfectly, I slowly taught myself to do things to the best of my ability, because even if I wasn’t perfect, at least I was giving it my all. This is a revelation I’ve carried with me all the way up until now with writing. I am now always aware that effort>outcome, that I will gain a greater sense of fulfillment from knowing I tried than knowing what grade I received.

While my mom taught me effort, my dad taught me a type of self-preserving tunnel vision in everything I wrote. Back in middle and high school, I would write essays and stories while having an overstimulating awareness of everything around me. Even if every bright light and intrusive sound was cut out from my writing space, I would still worry about something: opinion. The methods of which I wrote were heavily dependent on who I was writing to, and this was purely self-destructive, because I only thought of what the person reading my work would think. In class environments where peer review was constant, I would physically cringe witnessing another set of eyes going over my paper, worrying that millions of judgments were processing within their heads. 

Enter my dad: a 6’4 data analyst who keeps to himself and loves taking his dog for a walk. He doesn’t acknowledge emotion as a thing that drives how you react and live your life, he is instead a very logical thinker. To be worried about a speech in front of millions or a business meeting that decides the fate of the company just isn’t in his repertoire. It is a skill that I wish I had obtained more naturally (that and tallness being genes that unfortunately…completely skipped over me). What comes with not recognizing the point of worrying, is the misunderstanding of how your kid feels most of the time. There was a slight gap in how I was and how I appeared to my dad.  I had to come to him directly about my worries, and it was then where a tunnel both imaginary and mentally insulating began to form. 

“Who cares”. Two words. That’s what my dad would tell me every time I came to him worried about an upcoming school project or sports tryout. Being such a simple phrase, it took a while for it to fully cement into my head, but over time I started to write papers and essays without fear of eventual critiques. I came into crossroad moments in life with a calm understanding that whatever happens, happens, and there is nothing you can do to change that. Even right now as I write this autobiography, I predict my old self would worry about divulging too much into my parents instead of focusing on my writing itself. But I am here now, and I feel supremely confident in describing my parents’ influence on me because they are most of what I am as a writer and a professional.  

I never really connected with a teacher until my college career at St. Thomas. Before coming here, I was always a pretty quiet kid that was still worried about what people thought of him, and that meant not getting opportunities to openly express myself in front of my instructors. I took Dr. Salvatore Panes creative writing class my first semester as a freshman; it was an advanced class that I wasn’t even supposed to be in, it had to be destiny right? Dr. Pane gave me an environment to thrive, and being at the gateway of my college career, it set the groundwork for how I acted professionally in the classes to come. The class was entirely discussion based, structured around workshops reviewing every student’s poems and stories. In high school, I barely had a chance to share my work to a large audience, I only had the teacher’s word and grade letter as an indication that my work was good or not. 

Dr. Panes’ workshop setting was like a haven of comfort and belonging, and I really mean that. There wasn’t an ounce of judgement or envy in the classroom, my peers and I followed his direction and happily shared with each other our inner self expression through short stories. Being a student in the field of writing, this class was crucial in developing my attitudes towards workshop and editing, which I now hold in very high regard. Dr. Pane was my teacher when I had my self identity as a writer together, making it incredibly beneficial for both of us to experience his creative writing class. If it weren’t for Dr. Pane, I feel I’d still be somewhat hesitant to put my work out for heavy critique, nowadays, that’s hardly a second thought. 

As I now enter the phase in life where creative inspiration meets professional work, I look back on my mom, my dad, and Dr. Pane’s formative life lessons as directional reminders. To be persistent in how I write, to not care as much about what other people think of my work, and to be comfortable and encouraging of edits and critiques. With now a quarter of my life as a writer now past, I look forward to the many formative experiences that await me in the future .