How I Knew I was a Writer
And a Storyteller
I am a Writer.
Those words are sometimes difficult to say out loud. Nevertheless, I have always wanted to be a writer. At eight, I wrote my first poem, Broomhilda, into a small diary, the kind with the lock, whose cover was made of cloth and printed with daisies. A small pink ribbon peeked out to mark the spot of my latest musings. Here I would record the random thoughts and observations of a shy child looking out at her world from a distance. It was safe, this little nook in the closet where I would write, and from there, I could protect myself from boogeymen and the scary things that the children at recess would say if I didn’t acquiesce to their whims.
I used to think it strange that I experienced my life as if it were something to be studied. “Why?” was my favorite question, followed by “How?”. My parents would comment that I was so curious about everything. Then, in sixth grade, my father gave me a microscope. Through the lens, I could explore the bark of trees, butterfly wings, and flowers and see what was unseeable to the eye. I wanted to know why the veins in the sharp leaves of the rose bushes in our garden were different than the stained ones of the apple trees in the yard or the textured, oblong petals on my mother’s peonies. Under the microscope, I could appreciate the intricacies of the leaves. They appeared like maps, with roads and byways leading everywhere and nowhere. I imagined these roads into the unknown, creating stories from their veins that looked like unreadable maps to a world I had not yet explored but could dream of.
I wrote poems. It was easier to capture the fleeting emotions I could not understand in shorter words and phrases than to write long essays on what they might mean. I couldn’t distance myself enough from the emotions to analyze them. I wanted to feel and write — no interference from grammar or sentence structures.
There were moments when I would hear the words in my head, much like listening to a song you used to know but can’t fully remember. At those moments, I would run to find something to write with, something to write on, afraid those words would pass me by and leave me breathlessly holding onto some echo of what I felt through those words. I wanted to touch and capture them so they would be tangible and last forever. I would take the scribbled scraps out of my journal a week, a year, or many years later. Reading them, I could recall the time and place they came alive through me. I could reconnect with that girl and what she felt on that day when the recently mowed grass stained her knees green, and the sweetness of the wet mulch that hung in the air tickled her nose.
I worry that to be a good writer, I must lead an exciting life. Why would anyone want to read about a boring life? People want to feel moved, thrilled, challenged, and even eased into discomfort by the experience of another. It saves them from paying for those around-the-world trips, scuba diving in the Maldives, or rescuing orphans in a developing country. The reader can live vicariously through the storyteller, perhaps hoping that those experiences will make them more remarkable or at least conversant in the art of outdoing one another.
No one wants to read about the mother who struggles to raise two children by herself, with a job that pays just enough to cover daily expenses and not a dime more. Likewise, the fisherman who faithfully goes out each evening into dangerous waters hoping to bring in a catch to feed his family is of no interest to a college-educated reader who makes more in one day than the fisherman will make in a year. Readers won’t care about the kid who bootstrapped their business into a multi-million-dollar enterprise and lost it all because of arrogance.
On the other hand, perhaps readers do want to read about these people who are unlike themselves yet similar in their fears, worries, and shared human condition. Our stories should not divide us. Instead, they should connect us to the greater web of existence where all living beings are woven into the tapestry of life on earth.
I spend hours reflecting on these questions and searching for answers in the ordinary events of life, the simple ones where I’m faced directly with what is. I might find a response from the ocean as I watch the tides ebb and flow. The brightly feathered woodpecker that has made his home in the countryside entertains me, and suddenly any worries are replaced by a flash of inspiration. I savor my dark and rich coffee on the terrace while I listen to the sounds of mornings bathed in soft, blue light. Such exquisite occasions are the clues to stories yet to be written.
All our stories are journeys in some form or another. They are the maps we create that take us to our destination. If we arrive at wisdom, our individual and collective stories teach us about ourselves, cultures we have not yet visited, and ultimately our common divine nature.
Indeed, as I mature, more fleeting moments will be captured mid-air into notes on my iPhone or scribbled on paper napkins in loud bars or bustling cafes. The musings from a traveler and the insights of hard-won wisdom will reach these pages and invite you into your inner world and outer landscapes. Because…
I am a Writer. Better yet, I am a Storyteller.
Follow more of my journey on my Instagram or visit my website at www.aliciamrodriguez.com For more writing consider subscribing to Nothing Is Ordinary on Substack.
