Sam

A friend just approached me for advice about publishing poetry with literary magazines. In the midst of that conversation, I tweeted something about remembering being twelve or thirteen and entering poetry contests. There was one particular instance where I distinctly remember that I was trying to convince my parents that I could be a writer for a living, so I entered an online poetry contest.

When the notification that I won arrived three weeks later, I was ecstatic. I ran to my mother and stepfather and showed them the certificate. What I didn't realize was that because I'd "won," I had the opportunity to purchase the printed anthology that would contain my work – for a mere $60 plus shipping.

Getting scammed was crushing. Not only was I not going to be really published, my parents thought I was an idiot and were further convinced that writing should stay a "hobby."

I had no connection with other writers, no way of knowing that there were other people who went through the same thing. No way to get feedback on the things I wrote except the response from my parents, who designated most things I produced "weird." Lots of things were – and remain – "weird." It's a damaging thing, telling your child that everything they enjoy makes them strange and unwantable.

Fast forward four years. I was seventeen then and I'd been through several tumultuous online fandoms, survived, and learned what it was like to have nearly instant feedback on writing. There is no harsher learning environment than an Internet fandom. The Internet obviously has a layer of anonymity, and so anyone can say whatever they want to anyone else. The learning curve is sharp. Many can't take it. But I did, and I figured out that I maybe had some talent buried in there. All I had to do was hone it and remember that whenever someone wanted me to pay them to read my work, it was a bad deal.

At seventeen, I was in my first real life creative writing class. I started straying from fanfiction in favor of original work.

At the same time, I was frontrunning my high school's newspaper, piloting its online version and acting as formatter and editor.

A journalist came to speak to my newspaper class and expressed interest in me. We had lunch.

I won a poetry contest. (A real one.)

Teen Ink published one of my short stories.

All of these things happened, and suddenly my parents no longer looked at my writing as "weird." Suddenly my decision to go for a Bachelor's in journalism was just fine. I passed some secret test. At last, I failed to trip over the hurdle. I'm not sure why writing turned from a useless hobby – the one that drove my stepfather and me apart – to a viable career option, but it did.

Three years later, I have evolved even more career-wise. With my first foothold in the queer romance publishing world, I'm at last where I want to be. Ironically, like my first failed attempt at publishing, my first successful attempt is an anthology.

There should be a meaning-of-life-and-writing-and-all-that-is line here, probably, but I'm tired and my puppy looks extremely warm on my bed.

Happy Valentine's, everyone.