A Rock To Tie A String Around

Mom, we need to talk.  I have something I really need to tell you and I don’t quite know how you’re going to take it. I know that you’ve noticed that I’ve been distracted and distant; maybe you’ve noticed that I’ve started slipping words like ‘aggregate’ and ‘whimsical’ into my conversations.  I know you probably think it’s a phase, something I’m just curious about, that I’m just trying to do something to shock you and when you ignore my desperate attempts for attention, I’ll go back to normal.

The thing is Mom, it’s not a phase, and no matter how many inspirational teacher posters you send me, or how many pencils with fuzzy letters that spell out “I love teacher” that I collect, I’ll never be happy.

The thing is Mom; I think I might be a writer.

I know you paid my tuition to college so I could get my teaching certificate, I know you’ve told all your friends that I’m a teacher, I know how proud you are of my district paid health insurance benefits.

But the thing is Mom, despite all those pencils and company paid deductibles; I think I might be a writer.

And it’s not just a phase, and I won’t be happy just writing in a journal, I think I want to write something bigger, something even more important.  I think I want to write a novel.

In fact…. I’m just going to come out and say it, I did write a novel.  I wrote one last year without telling you.  My novel was the reason I didn’t come around for Sunday dinner, it was the reason I forgot to call you every week.  My novel and I were together, working out plot lines, ironing out character discrepancies, trying not to splice my sentences.

And further more, my novel has made me a better person. If it weren’t for my novel I never would have read that wiki on nautical terms or researched how bio-fuel cars work.  My novel is the reason I get up in the morning, and now that it’s complete, we want to make it official.

Mom, I’m going to an editor, and I know what everyone will say.  I know we live in a small town and people will talk.  I know how they whisper about the Donnelly boy, the one who became a musician.  I know how embarrassing this is going to be for you.

I just hope that one day, we can sit down and talk about it.  Maybe my novel and I can even come over for dinner.  I think you would like my novel, there’s a really funny part about a kangaroo and a flowerpot that I think the two of you could really bond over.

So whenever you’re ready Mom, our door is open.