I was a wild-haired and wild-eyed third grader, my left arm in a cast from fingers to armpit, when my parents took me to an open house the newspaper was hosting.

Ever after that day, I don’t recall wanting to work anywhere else.

When other girls my age were playing with dolls, I was trying to teach myself how to touch-type on a Remington manual that likely weighed more than me. I wrote my own newspapers, seldom burdened with facts (or subscribers).

I can’t even recall what exactly it was about the newspaper that so thoroughly won me over the day of that Open House. I wish I could.

But maybe it’s a good thing I can’t.

Since April 15 will be my last day at Charleston Newspapers.

The past two weeks have been difficult and awkward. After more than 22 years, the newspaper building feels like home. I’ve never spent this many years anywhere. Not in the house I grew up in. Not in any other place that I’ve lived. It’s been my one constant.

Which explains the vast amount of junk that’s collected in my office.

The late, great Gazette humor columnist Terry Marchal was one of the first people I met when I came to the paper. He was sliding down the hallway in his socks, his gray-white hair crazily tousled, singing “Suddenly Seymour” from Little Shop of Horrors.

I took it as a good sign.

The paper seemed a different place then. Happier. Warmer. Lively.

Back then, Bob Smith was the Gazette’s publisher, and I was his assistant. Except assistants were still called secretaries then. If Bob decided to leave the office while I was away for a minute, he wouldn’t write me a note. Instead, he’d leave some random item on my desk for me to find so I could guess where he went. It was usually something easy like a golf tee or a ball marker or a menu, or even a lid that smelled like Coppertone. My favorite, though, was when he left a surgical glove and a cough drop. He’d gone for a physical. (“Turn your head and cough.”)

Although I’ve told this story before, I’m in a reminiscing mood, so bear with me.

For the first ten years I worked at the paper, I told only one or two people that I liked to write. I was afraid I’d be laughed at–afraid the secretary’s dream of being like the reporters might seem sadly adorable–so I kept it a secret until a press release about a writing contest was sent to the newsroom with my name listed as one of the winners. Editor Rosalie Earle saw the release and asked me about it.

Rosalie happened to be looking for someone, preferably a new mother, to write “Smell the Coffee” on alternating weeks with former Gazette reporter/columnist Greg Stone, who had young daughters, too. I’d just returned from maternity leave after having Celeste. Rosalie gave me a shot at the column. Thirteen years have passed since then, and even though I’m leaving, I’m going to continue writing my column. I was nicely surprised when both old bosses and new said it was okay.

It feels like a lifetime ago that I first walked the halls of the paper, getting reporters to sign my cast. And it seems impossible to think of someone else sitting at my desk, enjoying my windows, filling my drawers with junk of their own.

As sad as I am to be going, I’m excited to start something new. To meet new people and hear their stories and screw up their names. (I’m lousy with names.)

It’s scary to go, but I think it’s time to not limit myself by having achieved a third-grader’s dream.

One of my closest friends, former WVU journalism prof Pam Hanson, co-author of scads of books (I’ve lost count), was recently telling me about her college son’s somewhat sudden interest in writing. She’s totally thrilled, and adorably proud.

As important as writing has become in my own life, I understand Pam’s excitement, imagining the validation she must be feeling to have her child embrace that which they’ve made their life’s work. To have offspring who want to follow their parents would be such a thrill.

Even more, Pam’s managed to draw her son into a world where you never really age out.

Most parents understand the importance of introducing their children to sports–how it provides more than just exercise. They get to experience being part of a team, learn the importance of practice, and develop abilities they’d not previously known.

Finding a sport they can continue to play as an adult is an added bonus, as much business is done on golf courses, between tennis matches, and on basketball courts.

Yet every sport eventually ages out. There will come a time when they’re no longer improving, when they start playing slower and tiring faster. When other limits arise.

With writing, it’s just the opposite. The more a person does it, the better they get. Age doesn’t slow them down. If anything, they only get faster. The beginner mistakes are shed, the self-editing goes faster, the characters become easier to build since you’ve met more real people whose traits you can use.

Plus, just like sports, writing builds character. And not just your own, but ones you make up.

Sure, young whippersnapper types jump into the spotlight every now and again, but that takes little wind from our sails, as the size of the playing field seems to stay roughly the same.

I’ve noticed many gatherings of writers I’ve been part of tend to feel like support groups, and even though we may technically be competitors, that never seems to deter the writers I know from sharing news of potential new markets and contests.

Another player? Cool. Join us. Let’s see what you’ve got.

Recently, I’ve been doing much writing outside of the areas where I’ve grown comfortable, and I’ve been encouraging Pam to break away from her safety zone, too.

“I have this one particular area of expertise where I feel confident,” said Pam. “Doing something else makes me feel almost a beginner again.”

“You’re like me with my columns,” I said. “Those are my thing, but it’s fun getting into fiction. I didn’t realize how much I’d like it.”

Of course, it’s easy to be brave from a distance. It’s so much simpler to be the supportive friend, the persuasive coworker. But to be the one who steps away from where they feel secure-that can be hard. Frightening, even.

It helps to have someone encouraging you to stretch beyond you limits, to take those first steps into the unknown.

The encouraging friend. The persuasive coworker.

Even a parent.

Ready to pick up a pen and try something new? Join us. Let’s see what you’ve got.

*****

Join Karin and Geoff Fuller, Pam Hanson, and many other writers during the annual WV Writers Conference June 11-13 at Cedar Lakes Conference Center in Ripley. For information on the conference, click HERE.