How Writing Snuck Up and Clubbed Me on the Head (Chronicles From a Late-Bloomer Writer) 

By Sharon Doering

Years ago, I nudged my 7th grader to join the cross country team. He had a runner’s body; I thought he’d do great. 

He wasn’t thrilled but gave it a go. 

Once he sees how good he is, I thought, the kid’s gonna love it. 

Nope. Hated it. 

“My bad,” I told him. “But knowing what you hate is useful. You crossed something off your list.” 

I became a writer in much the same way.

My childhood home had very little fiction. Dad had a subscription to National Geographic magazine and the Sunday paper, but neither Mom or Dad read any fiction. 

I was a lazy child. It never occurred to me to hop on my bike and peddle to the library. I read the handful of books on my sister’s bookshelf. Mostly Stephen King (my fav to this day) and also some dolphin erotica. Not sure where she got her hands on that contraband. 

High school was all lit analysis of the oldies. Even if one of my teachers would have asked me to write a short story, I don’t think I could have done much. My brain was underdeveloped, I was boy-crazy, and yep, still lazy.

When it came time to pick a college major, I went with Anthropology. I’d like to think much deep thinking went into this selection, but I’m guessing it went like this: I was intrigued by those N. Geo mags, and I loved Indiana Jones.

As an exchange student during my junior year, I lived in the Dominican Republic for a stint and realized, Oh, God, No! You do not have the personality required to integrate cross-culturally. It was then I crossed anthropology off my list. 

Back home, I pivoted to chemistry and biology, enjoying science for its systematic nature, harsh truths, and raw beauty. I considered myself a scientist and I went to grad school for biotechnology. I worked in labs. I liked working odd hours, late at night, and alone, but I didn’t actually enjoy the benchwork. Crossed it off my list.

 I worked in clinical trials, documenting patients’ medical histories and drudging through waivers. It was then I learned that I hated small talk and was terrible at meticulous paperwork, organization, and office skills. Crossed a bunch of skills off my list with a thick Sharpie.

I squeezed into a job as a biotech stock analyst. I was one of three women in a fifty-person firm. The VP had framed playboy mags in his office and was often high on cocaine, and the environment was rife with the drama of a pre-teen slumber party. This job I hated more than any other. Carved this baby off my list with a knife. 

The one aspect of the analyst job that I enjoyed — the writing. I had a blast writing quarterly reports on the stocks I covered. My boss, Jeff, was a nice guy. Jeff would roll his eyes, laugh, and say, “You can’t write this.” He would edit out my voice, making my reports more to the point, dry. That’s when it first dawned on me. Writing. 

Around the same time, I started reading fiction. I fell madly in love with short stories and novels. I read more. Then I started writing. It was exhilarating and magical. It was like taking a deep breath.

I married my love, taught science classes for twenty years (loved teaching), had three kids, but all the while, always writing, always reading.

Some writers come out of the womb knowing they want to write (I find you people fascinating and brilliant), but many of us are late-bloomers. It takes us a while.

If you’re a late-bloomer like me – Listen, all those non-creative, non-writing-related jobs: they weren’t a waste. Those jobs clarify what it is you love, what you’re willing to make sacrifices for. Their experiences inform you and spark your imagination. Most importantly, those jobs all of us have before the writing gig, they harden our souls in the best possible way. They give us invaluable emotional calluses.

That stock job I hated? Callus upon callus.

I’ve worked as a maid, a waitress, and a bartender. Service jobs are fantastic for building thick skin. People can be cruel – they chew you out, call you an idiot. So then, what are a few dozen cordial rejections from agents and editors? 

And motherhood has given me some whoppers of emotional calluses. I pour my soul into my children, yet they reject me. You’re embarrassing, Mom. Why is your nose so big? Why doesn’t that pimple on your face go away? 

Because, dear child, it is a mole. Parenting has helped me accept my ugliness, my failure, my stupidity. Accept it, then persevere.

My debut thriller comes out in July, and I’m 45 years old. For so many reasons, I wish I were younger. But from the perspective of my wandering – ok, blundering – soul, the timing is just right.

It doesn’t matter how or when you get here because sometimes, man, that slow, meandering route–the one where you get lost, swerve off the road to avoid hitting an armadillo, and then have to push your car out of a ditch–that route is kind of fun too.

Keep at it.

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Sharon Doering lives in the Chicago area with her husband, their three kids, and an unusually civilized dog, Indy.

In her other life, she was a science professor. She has also been a good waitress, a mediocre bartender, and a terrible maid. She is a lover of coffee, dogs, and absurdity.

Sharon is working on her second novel.

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Category: Contemporary Women Writers, How To and Tips