Writing Origins
In middle school, I wrote a delectably horrendous horror story, full of blood and gore, beautifully detailing the character and the events of these marble/orbs that were violent (if my memory serves correctly, I wish I still had the original copy).
My family was freaked out. My teacher loved it. She even asked me to read the story to an 8th-grade class. I remember the nerves sitting atop the wooden barstool at the front of the class of big-kid students staring up at me expectantly (I was a short 6th grader). I remember my back tightening and my arms shaking as I cleared my throat and began reading. Afterwards, there was applause, and then I went back to class.
It was the proudest moment in my young writing career!
I've always been obsessed with storytelling, from the intricate details to the overarching plot. What makes a character tick? Why would the story be told this way? What is the reason behind the antagonist's motives? I loved watching the stories unfold or reading as they came to life.
Reading was my favorite hobby growing up, and my escape as I entered adolescence. Each writer created a new story or wrote about real-life stories with fictional plots. I enjoyed the fictional stories the best. Whether that was romance, horror/suspense, or fantasy.
The end result of my college education with a concentration in English was teaching. However, high school English Language Arts is right up my alley!
But it's because I was not given permission in my youth to explore the possibilities of different careers besides the ones I knew --- educator, farmer, waitress, cook, or warehouse worker.
And please, that's no shade or hate to the jobs I knew growing up! Matter of fact, I grew up with the work ethic I have because of the amazing hard workers I had in my life. However, that's all I knew. And I wanted a job that wasn't going to keep me poor. I wanted financial freedom, and education was my one-way ticket.
In 2021, I was a featured author in a publication of a chapter in Luminous Literacies: Localized Teaching and Teacher Education. It was an amazing process of working closely with editors, collaborating, and reviewing feedback. I feel proud of the work completed, even during the time of COVID. (I'll share more about that work at a later date!)
So, fast-forward a few years, and I began following a wonderful indie author on TikTok. She was proudly proclaiming her book, sharing amazing details, and encouraging people to read her story and share their feedback. I was always in awe of her passion and dedication to her work. At the same time, my husband began brainstorming and building his idea for a new business venture.
And then it clicked...
I have grown in my studies as an educator, beginning my 6th year of teaching as a Level 2 Professional. However, if I can't dedicate full time into acting because I want and need to be a present mom (with a village that has to work as well), and I haven't began taking the classes I want for acting and modeling, so why don't I continue to work on those ventures on the back burner? They are side quests I want to put my time and energy into, but timing is just not right, and that's okay!
But Mo, don't you feel like you're doing too much?
Glass Half Empty
The weather is already warm for 7am. My daily run is illuminated by the sun rising above the east mountains. Cottonwood trees line the Paseo del Bosque trail, and I look up to see the light streaming through the leaves. A blue sky indicates another sweltering day. I get a whiff of the Rio Grande River running parallel to the path and wrinkle my nose at the fishy smell. It was time to head back.
My car was parked next to a silver SUV. I noticed a cheerful family of five getting in. The mom and dad were deep in conversation, laughing as they held hands before the dad opened the passenger door. Their three girls were loading up into the back of the car. I overheard the older sister talking about the different plants that she has learned. Each smile seemed genuine; their warmth contagious. When they drove away, their warmth left a hole of emptiness in my stomach.
My childhood had rare moments of happiness, and remembering my past always brings a wave of anxiety. The thought of my angry stepfather is enough to make me freeze in my tracks. I have plenty of practice to forget the memories that bring the most pain.
I jumped in my car and slammed the door closed. Squeezing the steering wheel tightly, I stare forward through the trees. The memories that bring feelings of loneliness, remembering the terror, anger, and despair that filled the place I once called ‘home.’ The belittling verbiage that my young ears absorbed. The physical pains my body endured.
My breaths are shallow, so I have to stop myself from hyperventilating. I’m willing, praying, that the bad thoughts go away. Tears risk falling down my face. I finally got my breathing together to drive out of the parking lot. It takes me about 10 minutes into the drive to finally calm down from whatever happened to me after I saw that family.
The song on the radio takes me out of the bad memory. This song was the anthem of the best times of my teenage years. I blast the radio and roll down my windows. I sat back and enjoyed the music playing. The longing from the nostalgia of high school seeps in.
My first year of high school was when I met my best friend, Naomi. We sat right next to each other and somehow hit it off right away. She also had a complicated home life, so we bonded over that shared aspect. Naomi and I were inseparable at school. She was the only person to know the full extent of what was going on at home. She even let me sneak in and stay with her a few times when I would run away from home or was kicked out.
For a while in high school, whenever my stepdad and I got into it, Naomi always came to my rescue. She would ask her grandmother and aunt to allow me to stay over for the weekend while my dad cooled off.
During the school week, I actively participated on campus. It was a way to avoid dealing with whatever BS the old man would be on at home. I didn’t care about getting perfect grades; passing was fine enough. My attitude was terrible, and I was a master of camouflaging myself to fit into any situation. My home life sucked and I hated that I could not have a picture-perfect family.
Naomi lives in California now with her husband, Tay. Us three moved out there after graduation, and I lived out there for about two years before moving back to New Mexico.
Nowadays I sometimes call her, but I don’t like to bug her. She is enjoying a calm and peaceful life, and I don’t want to intrude on that. It’s okay, though, after I moved back home, I was invited to move in with my two friends, Nina and Lucia.
My thoughts overtake my brain for the duration of the car ride, and I don’t even realize how I made it to the university’s parking garage when I’m suddenly putting the car in park. I get out and walk to the pay booth. I release a loud breath as I pay for parking for the next few hours. I have my dance class at 9 am, followed by a four-hour class for my political science program.
Walking to the Performing Arts Center, I glanced down at my university badge. Emilia Garcia. Senior. Political Science is a far cry from my true passion, dance, but I’ve always been intrigued by the workings of the world. My interest stems from my thirst to know all sides of a story.
Maybe because I’ve never really shared mine?
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