I don't recollect ever being one in my younger age who made notoriously teenage comments like, "I can't wait until I'm grown" or "Just as soon as I leave the house I'm gonna. ..." (My mother may beg to differ, but I'm relying strictly on memory here.) I'm definitely grown now, and I would give adulthood and the responsibilities I don't like back in a heartbeat, if I could. I can't, so onward I must go.
It took me a really long time to find my niche in this world. I had this horrible knack for comparing myself to the folks in my inner circle. You see, one of my friends just started a residency, two are applying for residency programs, two have MBAs, and one is working on a Ph.D in pharmacology. Me? I went to college with the intention of going to law school, but I changed my mind. I got quite a number of hours towards a master's in marriage and family therapy under my belt, then I quit the program.
When I thought about it, I was the loser out of my group of friends—naturally, I tried not to think about it. It's really not that I was a loser, though. All of those academic elitist friends of mine have always known exactly what they wanted to do with their lives. I can't say that. I wasn't born to be a doctor, lawyer or Indian chief. I was created to express myself.
I've always been interested in a plethora of things. If my two feet could manage walking down four dusty vocational roads at one time, I'd let them. They won't, though. So, there I stood, for a long time—years, perhaps—trying to decide what dusty occupational trail I would take.
Decorating. Love it. Music. Breathe it. Fashion. Own it. Writing … well, writing was different. Writing helped me discover myself. There are thoughts I wasn't even aware I had until I put them on paper, and feelings I didn't know existed until they bled from my pen.
One day, reason unknown, the thought crept into my mind that I would find a way to incorporate all the things I loved: learning, exploring, processing. One of the most obvious ways to do that for me is writing, but I'd never considered it an attainable profession for myself. I made vain attempts at discounting these thoughts, but they haunted me.
Fast forward to January 2006.
I interviewed for the assistant to the editor's position, here at the JFP. I thought it was at least a way to get my foot in the door and see exactly what this writing for a living thing looked like. In my first meeting with Donna, I was the most assertive I've ever been in an interview. I sold myself and made it known that I was interested in writing. I didn't allow myself to live inside my head, analyzing my every word, and I took a risk.
I'd put my newfound dream out into the universe. It worked.
I tried to juggle all the balls that were thrown at me being Donna's assistant (which is no easy task—she has more balls than most women I know), but not once did I let my desire to write and learn more about this business be shadowed.
Now, here I sit, writing my first-ever editor's note. Wow—I had to take a deep breath after I typed that. This month, with my promotion to assistant editor, my responsibilities increased dramatically and so did my level of stress. Speaking of stress, this issue has just about worn me to down to the quick. I never realized how easily problems were willing to arise just because I had my fingers crossed that they wouldn't. I never realized that I could get so nervous.
Did I assign enough stories? Are my ideas good enough? Did I sound too mean when I called that writer and left another message about that missed deadline? Do these people think I'm incompetent?
Donna and I often talk about how the 20s are made for questioning yourself. Just the other day, as a matter of fact, a talk we had helped me more than she could know.
I already know that this writing thing just may, indeed, be for me, but I didn't know exactly what I was supposed to do next with it. Like I said, enthusiasm and interest have never been a problem for me. Direction and focus, however, are my issues. As we talked, she offered me possibilities for growth, and affirmed some of the ideas about where I'd like to go with my writing.
Next month, I'll be taking my first step outside the box in that direction with my writing. I'll be headed to the Poynter Institute, in Florida, a leading school of journalism in the country, to a seminar called "Covering Race & Immigration."
I expect to learn a great deal from this experience. There just has to be something I can take away from a seminar dedicated to the exploration of, and writing about race. I will also be bringing something to the proverbial table myself. I've learned a great deal about writing from Donna and Brian the months I've worked at the paper. That's compounded by the fact that I'm a black woman, who graduated from a predominately white college, in the heart of a city that's predominately black, who watches so many of my neighbors be treated more like pawns by public officials, rather than people.
I have a lot to say about race. Hopefully, the folks at Poynter will teach me how to say it more effectively.
Over the past few days, I've definitely questioned myself. Gratefully, for some of those questions, I had answers. And for those I didn't, who says I'll even have the answers to them in my 30s? I've come to really understand something, lately. You really don't have to have it all figured out. I didn't, and look where it got me—the humble beginnings of a career.
By the way, I take it back. Being grown ain't half bad, but it ain't for the faint at heart.
Natalie Collier planned and edited the 2006 Annual Manual.
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