“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” -Ernest Hemingway
There was this great children’s book about Florence Nightingale and I renewed it from the library over and over and over. After reading it I decided that I wanted to be a nurse.
And then, I read a book where there was this coffee shop owner who fell in love with a British guy. So of course, I then wanted to own my own coffee shop.
And then, I read about a woman doctor and I considered it but let’s be realistic here.
And then (am I saying that too much?), I read about a journalist who fell in love with a sheriff in a small town. So of course I had to give that a shot, and of course writing was right up my alley, so I went that route and fell in love.
According to my mother I also wanted to be a preacher to Scotland but I don’t remember that one let alone remember where that came from.
All the while, I dug out emotions and wrote them down on paper–the only place that truly accepted me and my wild and dramatic imagination. I was an adolescent in this ever-twirling world, lost and awkward. A world I’d never asked to be a part of. (Sorry for the preposition at the end of a sentence, but I’m not a rebel without a cause.)
I had lots of dreams betwixt (yes, that’s a word and Google even called me a caveman for using it) these dreams, but writing was never one of those things. It’s funny how your future sits right under your nose, staring at you like the idiot you are. Every sadness, every happiness, every dream, every time words took my breath away pointed to what I’d eventually claim as my title: writer. For better or worse, that’s who I am.
So when I’m asked why writing? Because life. Because if I couldn’t express myself in a healthy way, I’d probably be doing the Macarena while juggling coconuts on the street. You might say, “Oh, that’s ridiculous!” but trust me. If someone said, “Hey, I bet you five bucks I can juggle coconuts and do the Macarena at the same time,” you would pay up. I guarantee it.
And if this whole writing thing doesn’t pan out?
Back to square one: Mother Mandie.