[When writer Philip Kenney noted in the introduction to his book, So Many Surprises: Essays 2013 — 2023, exactly when he came to know he was a writer, I realized it would be interesting to hear more such stories so I have been putting out word to Writing It Real members to send me personal essays on the topic. First up is member Sandra Hurtes’ essay, (Be sure to check out her byline and the cool old photo she sent in to go along with the essay). I know many of us can relate to her account of her experience. Please send in your accounts–hopefully, we’ll have another digital anthology to put together! But we don’t have to wait for a whole collection. I can publish your essays as you write them!–Ed.]

It was 1977, I was in my mid-twenties, working as a receptionist at a luxury-brand advertising agency in Midtown Manhattan. I was treading in foreign waters, knowing little of sophisticated Madison Avenue. In fact, the classified ad in The New York Times that got me here specified “chic” as a job qualification. When I read the ad to a friend, I mispronounced the word chic as chick.

My interview dress was casually formal—beige short-sleeved dress, buttoned down the front and belted at the waist with a flared skirt just above the knee. With my 90 words-per-minute typing speed (and chicness!) I aced the interview.

When I wasn’t answering the phone or making coffee, I read the Times, which was delivered to the office. In addition to the news, which I was moderately interested in, I read personal essays by female writers, unlike anything I’d ever read; they were true stories and used the “I” pronoun. Vivian Gornick, Maxine Hong Kingston, and others wrote about their childhoods, society’s expectations, relationships and so much more. Their work appeared in the Times during the early days of the “Hers” column, which ran in the Home section until 1993. The column was a weekly forum in which a different female writer wrote once a week for four weeks. I had just started therapy and had begun to keep a journal. Insights into my life filled me with a desire to share them; I dreamed that one day I would have my essays in the “Hers” column.

In the ensuing years, I held various jobs that I’d begun to refer to as “day jobs”—they paid the bills while I pursued my creative life. After work, my life revolved around reading and writing. I spent endless hours at bookstores; each book I read—Hong Kingston’s Woman Warrior, Gornick’s Fierce Attachments, and so many others helped soften the loneliness I’d felt since childhood. There were women like me—at times lost, having difficulty with family, ambitious, or feeling guilty for not being ambitious enough.

I crafted essays in my head and honed my writing skills in my journal, writing full-length pieces, too raw for publication. My writing “mentors” had given me the courage to write about my real-life worries that included: would I be alone for the rest of my life, find a fulfilling career, would I weather the storms of my near-impossible separation from my parents?

In time, my writing became smoother, and I showed work to close friends. They cheered me on. I took my first creative writing class and learned the power of revision and feedback. I soaked up every comment. In 1994, I began to submit work to newspapers; I had three published essays, one in The Washington Post. I consistently read “Close to Home,” the column that had replaced “Hers.” The submission requirements were on a voicemail recording—two published clips, a 1200-word double-spaced essay, and a return envelope (for the likely form rejection.)

I completed an essay that had been workshopped in a writing class and that I’d obsessively revised. I attached two required clips and the self-addressed envelope. Five days later, to my astonishment, I heard the great news. My essay, “Keeping Alive the Dreams of Love,” would be published in “Close to Home.” I was in shock.

The day the essay appeared, I felt as if I were living in someone else’s life. That feeling continued as two editors and a literary agent contacted me about possible projects. A friend of the person I’d written about, as well as people from my past, contacted me. That was exciting. I imagined them saying, I didn’t know she could write. It seemed I had become an overnight success.

But unbeknownst to most people, I had been apprenticing since 1977, when I was a receptionist at the advertising firm and began to find myself in other women’s stories. Reading what I would one day write was the most necessary part of my journey.

While fame seemed to be knocking at my door, I shied away. All I ever wanted was to write and for people to read my words. I cut back at work and dedicated one day a week to writing. I spent hours in my pajamas before coffee, experimenting with fiction, essays, and feature articles; I loved to write and was deeply fulfilled. Essays were my home base, and I easily placed them; a few short stories and many features were also published. I always had a day job.

Working on this essay brings me joy. It takes me back to the time when I read and wrote my way through a world and life in constant flux.