When I was in the 4th grade, I won a plaque for being the best overall writer in my school. The piece that I won the award for, a poem that personified a tree and used the shedding of leaves as a metaphor for death was…way deeper than I had intended it to be. It was good, though, and receiving that award in front of the entire school was life changing. From that day forward, I knew myself to be a writer. An award winning writer. That self-awareness has given me roots on many days when I felt like I was just floating.
If nothing else, I am a writer.
It’s kind of like motherhood.
If nothing else, I am a mother.
Or being a female.
If nothing else, I am a woman.
Essays, poems, short stories, plays, this blog. Private and produced. First drafts. Final drafts. One line of dialogue on a piece of scrap paper.
If nothing else, I’m a writer.
As a writer, as a mother, as a woman, I am honored to share that I will be reading my writing as part of the Philadelphia production of Listen To Your Mother. I’ll be sharing the stage on May 11th with women like me who bare it all in black and white.
Years ago a seed was planted in me that insisted that I have something to say, I have something to share. And now, decades later, the flowers are starting to bloom.
And I still have a heck of a metaphor to work with.