When I was little, probably 3 or so, my mother hid the crayons from me because I had written all over my bedroom wall. Most kids would have drawn a picture, but I was born ready to write.
In September of my senior year of college, I changed my major from journalism to expository writing. One of my writing professors had Ivy League degrees. As I was leaving campus one afternoon, another student caught up with me and let me know she had gone to the professor to ask how she could raise her grade in the class. “Write like Meghan” was the good doctor’s advice.
After college I had to rely on my journalism classes to pay the rent. I photographed the county fair. I wrote obituaries. I designed pages. But print journalism wasn’t prepared to compete with online news and I spent three years in hiding at a pathology lab. I went back to school for science classes. I cut up a rat. And a cat. At work, I cut tissue on a microtome. Sometimes I even cut myself. I’ve seen parts of all our most well-known local celebrities. Their moles have hair just like everyone else. Their colons grow polyps, too.
When my husband lost his job as a photojournalist, I decided it was time for me to get back to what I was meant to do. I’ve spent the past 18 months at an agency writing copy for a large retailer. You know the one. You bought your socks there.
Sweet or Un 