The Art of the Story
Becoming a writer
by Carey Mednick, posted on January 21st, 2010 in The Storytellers Issue
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Flashback: 1981. As a sixthgrader, I was asked, “What will you be doing in the year 2000?” My answer? “I will be an artist, lawyer or dental assistant.” Nowhere in that list of completely random careers was my ultimate fate: becoming a writer.
As a kid, I loved putting on plays, writing stories, and dressing up. My mother spent many hours sitting on the basement steps, chain smoking Kent cigarettes and sipping Tab, while I regaled her with tales of Martians, robots, orphans, and fairies, with the Bionic Woman and Donny & Marie thrown in occasionally for good measure.
But, I had a monkey on my back that just got bigger and stinkier as I got older: the aroma of magic markers, the pleasure of cracking open a fresh box of Crayolas and, yes, the minty mellowness of white paste. I happily painted and papier-mâchéd my way through elementary and middle school thinking my artwork would grace future Shaun Cassidy or Duran Duran album covers. I pursued my dream of art-world stardom through high school, although by my senior year, I realized that I was a marginally talented, teeny fish in an increasingly wider and deeper pond … and that I kept getting As on all of my English papers.
Yet, I wanted to wear all black, squeeze little expensive tubes of paint, and have a somewhat constructive excuse to be moody and miserable. I applied to and was accepted into art school, and my parents reacted like I had just been picked up by the cops for shoplifting lipgloss.
“You just want to sing and dance on the cafeteria tables like they did in that movie!” my mom screeched. (She thought a 4-year art college was like a $100,000 version of Fame, although I doubted that any spontaneous sculpting accompanied by jazz hands would break out.) My dad’s answer—which was preceded by a haiku of curses—was a definitive, “Nah.”
So, I struggled as an art major at a state university with a mushrooming secret: art was not where I should be. Either admirably or pathetically, I pushed onward and landed an internship at an advertising agency which quickly turned into my first graphic design job. (I basically just graduated and kept showing up. They took pity on me and hired me.) As I sat sweating in front of a newsletter waiting to be designed, I prayed that whatever muse inspired Mr. Helvetica would inspire me. The muse called out sick that day and I turned my attention to the newsletter’s content. I started by writing photo captions. Over the next few months I edited 1000-word articles into spaces that could only hold 200, then wrote some clever headlines. I eventually moved on to writing newspaper, TV and radio ads, websites, and everything in between.
I finally realized that I loved writing; it was a talent I had all along. I wish I could have figured that out back in 6th grade but major life decisions at that age are usually left to, “Do I need to start wearing a bra?” And, as I watch my 9-month-old son, Ian, babble happily while picking at a miniscule crumb on the floor, I can’t wait until I get to be the mom on the basement steps, but minus the Tab and Kents.
