Why I Write
As a little girl, I adored magazines. The pictures, the stories about beautiful clothes worn by beautiful people, the glossy glaze which made the pages stick together under just the slightest bit of humidity.
My dad worked in New York city at Time Inc. and would often take my sisters and me into the city for fun Friday outings. I would sit crossed legged on the train, flipping through pages, pages I could not read yet, wondering who in the world found themselves lucky enough to make this type of magic happen. Who got to pick each piece and meticulously flip through pictures taken by the most famous photographers to find the one that fit just right? I wanted to be that person.
This led to me forcing my sisters to play a game I made up called “Vogue,” which I loosely, or maybe not so loosely, based on the movie “The Devil Wears Prada.” I, of course, would take on the duties of editor and chief, Charlotte Doogle, I must have known about copyright laws because I refused to go by Miranda Priestly. My sisters would reluctantly be my assistants or designers. Our largest investor, my mom, bought us little notebooks and clipboards so we could hold board meetings to plan our latest issue, which of course was constantly going through a million delays and missed deadlines making the editor, me, perpetually stressed.
Each sister came into my office, really my dads’ office an “off-limits” zone in our house, and presented their designs and pitch stories. We would discuss how they could improve, or, if it was truly terrible, I would simple reach over and place the little piece of notebook paper into the shredder. Soon my mom put the shredder in the closet and locked the office door, so I had to scramble during out busiest season and move my whole office, a couple of pens, a clipboard, and my binder with the magazine layout inside, into my bedroom. Not as official, but it would have to do.
One day, my dad sat me down and asked why I like to play this game, “I want to make magazines.” The question seemed oddly simple to me, causing my dad to sort of jerk back in surprise at the quickness of my answer. He then told me about journalism. Completely awe struck by the news of this weirdly wonderful career, my dad explained how they got to play the part of writer and detective, going out into the world and telling stories while uncovering secrets. He said, “if you think playing editor is fun, just wait till play journalist.”
As I got older, I never knew what I wanted to do, I still don’t. I just know I like to write, and I am filled with ideas.
I love writing but don’t love direction. I wanted to be a journalist but hate deadlines. I will soon get a degree in Journalism but feel unsure if I still want to do it. All I know if I love to write, and love the feel of a glossy magazine.