Confession by Mandi Leigh

 

I have a serious confession to make that can no longer wade inside. What I am about to admit has been thumping at the bottom of the well in my heart since childhood. It can no longer live in that low, damp, dark hiding place. The bailer bucket must be dropped down to scoop it out.  The pounding in my heart is forcing my body to quiver a little as the pulley and rope are rising and splashing near the surface. Are you ready? Here it comes. Breathe.

I’m a writer. There. It’s out, wrinkly and flopping on the ground next to the well, left to dry out. The heat and sunshine at the top of the well exceed the intensity expected. Nevertheless, it’s out. I’m a writer.

In the small town where I live, my circle of influence generally describes me as a worker bee. Moss cannot grow underneath someone always on the move occupied with the next project, sale, job, outdoor travel adventure, or school event. I willingly accept that my community sees me as a go-getter or helping hand that can’t decide to work on just one venture at a time. I’m a doer, and I’m a sucker for saying “yes” when help is needed. Mothering, working, helping, camping, traveling, prepping, going, doing…the list goes on. An option for stillness does not seem so.

However, stillness has always existed for me in the wee small hours of the morning, before my children and husband wake, and before the world rises to ask for me.  In that still and quiet space of the early morning, I drink coffee…and I write. My mind twirls in delight, as my fingers dance on the keyboard. Until now, no one was invited to the recital. Articles, stories, songs, poems, skits, idioms, and mish-mash ramblings, stored in my computer; they all stayed hidden in the safeness of the dark back-stage. No splattered rotten tomatoes or bellowing boos if the curtains stay closed. And that incessant devil of a stage hand whispering, “You’re not worth it” or “…not really a writer anyway.”

As I peer backwards in life, I can see that evil, doubting, ever-present voice consistently creeping in. At age 6, with cheerios milk-glued to my chest, I sat at the kitchen counter writing an unassigned poem about a few photos I saw in a magazine. I must’ve shared my writings with my teacher, because I always wondered how that poem landed in the school newsletter. “You’re not a writer.” At age 12, I was mystified that the school librarian selected me to attend a young author’s conference.  “That’s strange.”  To my complete embarrassment, my freshman English teacher announced to the entire class “Amanda is a great writer.”  “Absolutely not.” As a full-time college student who held multiple jobs, I spent my precious time off solo in the great outdoors, and I wrote articles about my experiences. I never shared them. “Because you are not a writer.” I spent a decade as an environmental consultant writing scientific technical documents. “Yes, but that’s not really writing.” After leaving consulting to raise children, I side-hustled and helped non-profits write creative science curriculum for elementary students. “That doesn’t count.” And to this day, when I drive alone in my car, the articles, stories, books, songs, poems, and skits have a party in my head while practically writing themselves. “But, they’ll stay in your head forever because you are not a writer.”

I’m weary of the mean mongering, and it’s time to can that voice! Yank the bailer bucket out into the sunshine. Draw the curtains open, and turn the lights on.  At this moment, with my eyes squinting in the hot, bright light, I declare, “I AM A WRITER!”