The following blog post was originally published as an essay in the collection, I, The Writer. This book, published by Sweetycat Press, was an assortment of essays by authors on why they chose to become writers and the impact the decision had on their lives. I thought you might enjoy reading my contribution.
Enjoy!
I, G. Allen Wilbanks
Where do writers come from? Are they born, or are they a product of their environment? I have no idea, and I’m fairly confident the following information will offer absolutely no enlightenment to the question.
My writing career started at a very early age. I was in first grade when the elementary school I attended decided they wanted to compile a book of drawings, poems, and short stories created by the students at the school. At just six years old, I composed a poem and submitted it to the reading committee.
The poem was quite advanced, and the school staff could see right away that I was a prodigy whose work of creative genius absolutely must be included in the school publication. The poem was about a bunny, named Sunny, who was very funny, and other similarly complicated verbal imagery. I was quite proud of it and felt its inclusion in the book was an accomplishment of the highest magnitude.
It wasn’t until a few years later that my mother explained to me that any child in the school who could stop eating paste long enough to drag a crayon across a piece of paper was going to get published. Absolutely nobody who submitted was rejected. That disappointing bit of information came much too late, however. The first stone had already been firmly set to pave the path that I would follow from that day forward.
All through high school, I read books voraciously, and I wrote my own stories during any free time I had between studying and hanging with friends. I wrote fantasy, science fiction, and horror, as those topics interested me the most. When I graduated from high school and was accepted into college, it therefore seemed only natural that I should major in computer science.
You see, my parents thought writing was a hobby, and weren’t about to send their child off to college to study how to improve his skills at wasting time. So, instead, I spent my first two years almost failing out of school because I drank too much and rarely went to classes, a very writerly thing to do.
When I convinced my parents that I had zero interest (or ability) in the field of computer science, I was finally allowed to change my major to something more fitting to my personal interests. I changed my major to … genetics.
At least it was an improvement, as I did find the subject to be interesting and worth attending classes to learn more about. I graduated with a B.S. in genetics a few years later and quickly discovered that there was absolutely no job market in my field for anyone with less than a Master’s degree and five years previous experience. I was stuck.
So, what did I do with a college degree I couldn’t use and a lifelong love of writing? You all know what comes next, so say it with me: I went into law enforcement and got a job as a police officer.
What? You didn’t see that coming? Well, neither did I, really.
I spent the next ten years of my life honing my writing craft by creating little gems of prose that went something like this:
“The RP stated he last saw his vehicle parked in his driveway at 10:45 PM the night before. At 5:15 AM this morning, he discovered his vehicle was missing.”
Or:
“While traveling northbound on Ralston Avenue, V1 failed to stop at the posted stop sign, entering the intersection of Ralston Avenue and Hayne Road. V1 struck the driver’s side, rear quarter-panel of V2 who was traveling westbound on Hayne Road.”
It was riveting reading. All my supervisors told me so.
After many years of focusing solely on my current career, I finally started writing fiction again on my free nights and weekends out of boredom and a desperate desire to stay sane. I am not sure it worked. If you ask my family, they would advise you that my sanity is an ongoing work in progress. I did find some limited professional success however, getting a few of my stories published.
I decided to publish using my middle name while I was still working as a police officer. I made the decision because I didn’t want to use a pen name, but I still wanted to separate my writing from my job. I didn’t want anyone to confuse my fictional life with my work on the streets.
I could imagine being in court and having an attorney question me about a recent arrest.
Attorney: “Officer, you arrested my client because you say you found a gun in the pocket of his coat?”
Me: “That’s correct.”
Attorney (holding up a magazine in his hand): “Officer, did you write the story in this magazine about a police officer that planted a gun in the pocket of an innocent man in order to frame him for a crime he didn’t commit?”
Me: “Uh…”
Fortunately, that particular nightmare never came to life. Mostly because I was publishing very few stories at the time rather than from my clever attempt at altering my name.
In 2016, I finally took the plunge. I retired from real life and decided to live full time in a fantasy world of my own making. I am happy with the change, and I believe I made the right decision. To date, since retiring from law enforcement, I have published two short story collections and two novels, as well as another two hundred short stories in magazines, anthologies, and online venues.
I believe six-year-old me would be proud of what we have accomplished.
Or not.
He might be more concerned with whether or not he got a cookie in his lunch that day. I really have no idea how a six-year-old thinks.
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If you enjoyed this essay and are curious about the other authors in this collection and their writing journeys, you can find the book on Amazon at this link.
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