Proclamation — Idaho/Wyoming/Colorado

“I am a writer…”

I was hoping the words would roll easily off of my tongue and into my response when my friend’s grandmother asked me,

“What is it exactly that you are doing on this trip?”

Instead, the proclamation laid thick like raw honey on my tongue, sticking to the roof of my mouth.

“I am a writer and I am focusing on my writing.”

Choppy, gooey, and heavy as stone— the words fell with little conviction.

I have always wanted to be a writer. Before I could form sentences on paper I gushed stories to my mother, who would listen with a thoughtful ear. She often asked me questions about my characters and always encouraged me to tell her more. When I was confident enough in my ability to write, she gave me my first journal. It was powder pink and had a white kitten wearing a fuchsia tutu on its front cover. A pair of ballet slippers were printed on the back, their laces wrapped around the book and then twisted to frame the ballerina kitten posed in a passé on the front.

“Now, you can write your stories in here.”

I wrote my first story called “The Wild, Wild West” in that journal while riding in the backseat of our bright red 1987 Mazda. (I promise to post a copy of this artifact when I return home.)

I have kept a journal from then until now—21 years of hand-written sentences pressed between hundreds, maybe thousands of pages of lined paper are organized into books and stacked (somewhat) neatly in a box on top of a closet in my mother’s house.

I have always wanted to be a writer but have never been truly certain of what it means “to be a writer”? Or maybe what I have felt uncertain of is what it takes for one to say with conviction that they are a writer and whether or not I will ever have it.

If I write every day, can I say that I am a writer?

What if I write every day but I don’t have a degree, can I still say that I’m writer?

What if I get a degree but my grammar still sucks?

What if I publish a book but nobody reads it?

What if everybody stops reading books and my story is forgotten?

What if everybody starts writing books and my story gets lost?

What if I always only think I am a writer but never know for sure?

My mother joined me on my journey for a week and we drove through Idaho, into Yellowstone National Park and across Wyoming to Colorado. Sharing such a small space with her made me realize how much my goals and values have been influenced by our relationship. My passion and drive for taking chances are a result of her undying belief in my success.

This morning, we said our temporary goodbyes in the car on the way to the Denver airport.

“I just want you to know that I hope the rest of your trip is everything that you want it to be and that you get to write and do all of the things you imagined yourself doing.”

“Thank you mommy. I just want you to know that I appreciate you supporting me in almost everything I do.”

“Yes, almost. You’ve made some crazy choices.”

“I know, that’s why I said almost.”

Nothing can compare to or describe the closeness between my mother and I. It’s deep and special and one of the most beautifully intricate things in my life. As I drove away from the airport it became strikingly clear that I am here because of her and what she has given me. I know that I am incredibly lucky. In the same way that she inspired me to first put my stories on paper and made them feel so important, my lack of certainty in what it means to be a writer has been shaken away by my sureness of my mother’s belief in me.

I am a writer and I am here to focus on my writing.

**Photo taken at Old Faithful in Yellowstone National Park