Changing the World, One Creation at a Time

Brittany Lowery

I’ve always enjoyed telling stories since I was little. My parents would endure me rambling for hours about the dreams I had, and I usually made up more details along the way. Eventually, this turned into writing stories. My first publication happened in the 8th grade when a scholastic newspaper published my old short story about romantic middle school melodrama. I thought it was so innovative, writing about perceived unrequited love and jealousy. I refined it over two years, working on it whenever I felt like it, and then I submitted it. Cue my surprise when my English teacher gave me a certificate, saying I was officially a published author. Everyone clapped for me, and a grin split my face despite my slight embarrassment about being the center of attention.

Obviously, I was extremely proud of myself.

Reality set in though as I realized unless I made it big like Stephanie Meyer (who just finished Twilight at the time) or J.K. Rowling, I’d be broke as an author. So, I stopped writing any fiction. I continued journaling about my daily woes, and sometimes in those journals, I’d pop in a paragraph to stand as an allegory for my real life troubles.

After struggling through my second semester of college (I was pre-med), my expectations were lowered regarding the future. I wouldn’t be making six figures. I hated what I majored in. So, I proceeded to try veterinary studies, animal behavior, psychology, engineering, graphic design, marketing, and information systems. Before I knew it, I’d spent six whole years on things I hated and had zero passion for without an undergraduate degree.

I just wondered, “What am I supposed to do now?”

I was twenty-two, the age when most people graduated.

The crushing feeling of failure at everything I touched was beyond depressing. Throw that on top of mental illness and undiagnosed autism, and it made a catastrophe. Still, I was adamant about not returning to writing.

But, having run out of majors to try, I reluctantly declared myself a creative writing major, figuring it was better than no degree. I’d been in BJ Hollars’ class before when I first came to UWEC, so we’d known each other for a few years before I declared myself a creative writing major again.

One day, I visited his office hours, and I said, “I’m not making a difference in the world. How am I supposed to cope with that?”

This was a lingering question that’d haunted me forever. My value was determined by how I affected the world. With all the previous fields I’d studied, I would’ve had the potential to possibly save someone’s life, save the planet, preserve an endangered species, prevent a hacker from taking over the government, and all these other grandiose things. As a writer, I wasn’t making a difference on a large scale, so what purpose was I writing for?

“As a writer, I wasn’t making a difference on a large scale, so what purpose was I writing for?”

Maybe I’m more philosophical, thinking about existentialism more than the average young person, but that nagging feeling of “What am I meant to do?” persisted.

At twenty-two, I still hadn’t answered that question, and when I talked to BJ, he tried to help me see it from another perspective.

I didn’t have to make change on a grand scale.

What I wrote could make a difference in just a single person’s life; It could evoke emotions they didn’t know they had. Honestly, at this point, I still wasn’t sold on this idea, feeling rather worthless.

I asked my best friend, an engineering major, what the purpose of creative fields is since we’re not accomplishing life changing things. He told me that life couldn’t just be about solving problems. If there was nothing to enjoy in life, what were they solving problems for?

Okay, that was a nice sentiment, but I still couldn’t understand it.

Until summer of 2020 when I rediscovered a joy for reading.

After I rediscovered my love for reading, I rediscovered my love for writing in earnest again.

Something you should know is that I’m not a very emotional person. I hate crying, I don’t like talking about my feelings, and I live life dictated by logic.

Summer 2020 though, I read a 311 chapter novel from China that’d been translated into English. I sobbed harder than ever before. I could feel how painful it was to suffer through these trials.

Finally, I understood the “why”.

We create to bring the humanity out in people when the world is at its worst. Since that first novel, I read more that made me feel human instead of like a robot. Not all of them made me cry, but they all evoked such poignant emotion. 

Since last summer, I’ve self-published one novella, and I’m working on two more.

It took me twenty-five years to understand why we create, why it’s essential for the world. Hopefully, young artists, you’ll be able to comprehend it much earlier, indulging yourself in your creative passion.

What we create makes a difference, and it touches everyone it reaches.

I’d say that’s definitely changing the world, one creation at a time.