Ain't I a writer?

    
   Dig, if you will, the picture*.... a girl who is full of conditions.. cute but chubby, funny but shy, this but that, and seeing the sun but obscured by clouds**. You'll notice i'm quoting already; it worked for T.S. Eliot. Anyway, this kid found shelter in words and the mixture of taking the odd girl out and turning her into something positive along with unpolished talent created a writer-to-be. After my dad died when I was 10 I fancied myself a poet and focused on the writer persona to get me through the broken or incomplete feelings. I've always been sensitive and out of step, anonymous but somehow marked. So the bad poetry and unfinished stories started around then (though i found a hilariously maudlin card i wrote for my mom when i was 5) and continued through the elementary years. I was encouraged by the teachers who were well meaning but frustrated by how little discipline I have/had. I don't edit myself because I'm lazy. I am a slow reader so I rely on assumptions from bright perceptions. I like to think that I personally made my 7th grade English teacher go grey and can remember her holding me in her gaze saying i could be a "writer" - with all the gravity of Maya Angelo in her voice - if I would apply myself (or somesuch- i lost interest after "writer"). But there were teacher/cheerleaders along the way and I just adopted that persona. I was not only the first Goth at West Junior High but *the* writer of my class. The writer who never wrote much more than bad poetry and listened to the Cure. 


   In high school I had more teachers who tried to encourage me but no one could really extinguish the discouragement I had inside. I have an evil ninny inside. If i pick up a pen, I think of the quality i could produce and put it down. I know i'm not a wealthy sweater writer like Eggers; using the patented "Appalachian" voice feels inauthentic; i can't stand fan-fic. So what is my voice if it can't be sold? I am a coward, but it is for the integrity of literature. I am quiet to prevent discord and noise. You're welcome.


   When I meditate, I give gratitude and reflect on my life, and as a gift sometimes a message comes to me. Most recently it said "let your soul speak". For all my gifts I am grateful, but I am doing a disservice in silence. I keep wisdom to myself even though I have said perfect things and know I have power in my ability to conjure and steer language. Silence is misused when it holds back something beautiful or meaningful. Instead of collecting masks, I let them fall and see a writer. But once the word is articulated, I am vulnerable. I know Writers (with a capital W) will exclude and ignore me. People fighting for my face as a mask will try to trivialize my talents and dismiss me. The genre-driven culture won't know what box or shelf to place me. And then my learning curve of unskilled decades is daunting. And the market. And the bitter, evil and deceptive inner voices that keep me locked away. So now I pray for focus. With my tattered and absent beliefs I desperately pray for clarity and an unobstructed portal for my soul to sing. 


It is not all I have, but it is the purest independent evidence I have. After the dust settles, the isolation and peace is found, I have to figure out what stories I want to tell and love it them like children. Quiet the voices of spite and hurt and be. Legacy is not under my control; but expression is both my vocation and birthright. Even if the words disappear once uttered, at least I might be able to die thinking I did something.


* Prince "When Doves Cry"
** Name of a David Gilmour album