Can I Call Myself a Writer?

Can I Call Myself a Writer

by Marie Bonet

It’s night time. I’m 14 years old. Brazil.

The ocean breeze inebriates me.

I like to read, write, and daydream. I have a best friend who also loves to write. We are inseparable at school.

We start writing stories — mini-novels — just for fun. I write one chapter, she writes the next. Back and forth, and then we read what we wrote.

We collect many notebooks filled with stories. We keep them in a box and take turns keeping them safe.

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It’s night time. I’m 18 years old. Brazil.

The scent of textbooks lingers in the air. People talk. A bell rings. Exciting new things are happening — for both my friend and me. We go to different universities and take different paths.

I still love to write. I venture into poetry and short stories.

Compositions.

I write and read them many times. My hand is sore from all the writing. No notebooks now — just loose sheets of paper.

I don’t show them to anyone. I just put them in a drawer.

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It’s night time. I’m 28 years old. Brazil.

The scent of talc powder and children’s shampoo still lingers in my nostrils.

I have a three-year-old son. I love him with all my heart. I read to him every day and tell him stories I make up on the spot. The stories develop naturally as I’m creating and telling them.

I continue to write, sporadically—poetry, short compositions, stories.

I read them, then I store them.

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It’s night time. I’m 29 years old. Brazil.

The hallways carry the smell of anesthetics, chemicals, and lab animals.

I advance into graduate school — but I continue to write. Stories and poetry. Maybe a children’s book?

I write it. It’s a fable. I read and reread it and finally decide to show it to a language teacher I know.

She likes my story, gives me some notes, and tells me I might want to publish it.

Naturally, I get very excited.

I find out publishing a book is not that simple. So, I put the story in a drawer with all the others.

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It’s night time. I’m 37 years old. Canada.

I smell flowers. My shampoo scent spreads through the bedroom.

I have two sons now. I love reading to them. I grab a book, they sit around me, and I begin reading — one chapter per night.

I start writing again, this time in English. I make up stories as I go along. It’s fun — the kids love it.

They ask me, “What’s going to happen next?”

Eventually, my oldest tells me, “Mom, why don’t you write this story?”

Do I see another children’s book coming?

Yes.

Excitement!

I begin writing the little book. I hire an artist to draw the graphics. Everything is done. I just need to send it off and see if someone wants to publish it.

How do I do that?

I work full-time. I care for my kids. Life gets busy.

I put my story and the graphics on my computer. I wonder when I’ll get the courage to send it out.

My English may not be good enough.

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It’s night time. I’m 42 years old.

The smell of ethnic food we ate at dinner lingers all the way up to the bedrooms.

My youngest is 9 years old — he is developmentally delayed. My oldest is 16.

I still tell nighttime stories to my youngest. He loves it. The oldest orbits around, pretending to be busy — paying attention.

A story develops, as it usually does when I make them up as I go along.

But this one is different.

More elaborate. Complex.

An entire plot is forming. It’s a much longer story, and every night I add to it. The kids are engrossed in this fantasy tale.

“Mom, you really should use this story to write a book,” my oldest says with a thoughtful expression. “It’s really good.”

I believe him.

I begin writing this fantasy, which is starting to take a life of its own.

And I still write other compositions as well—still using paper and pen. I write and read them, then store them in a drawer.

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It’s night time. I’m 50 years old.

My oldest son moves away. My youngest stays with me, forever.

I see the trees outside as I lean on the sofa. The aroma of peppermint tea is soothing. I think about my life. I have a beautiful notebook on my lap and a mechanical pencil in hand. I start to write.

I write a composition in one take. I read it, see errors and areas that need improvement. No one to give feedback — It’s up to me, I guess.

I do this writing exercise more often now.

A pencil and a notebook with stories rest on the nightstand.

Inspiration comes when it comes.

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It’s night time. I’m 55 years old.

I can smell the sweat, makeup, and old dressing room odors. We are getting ready to go on stage.

Community theatre is a new artistic outlet I’ve taken on.

The notebook and pencil are still within reach.

Inspiration comes.

I try the internet—websites that end up going nowhere.

I like my stories… but maybe they’re not good enough.

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It’s night time. I’m 64 years old. Retired.

I feel so free. I smell the chocolates and apple pies.

The bakery is one of my favorite spots.

I eat without inhibition.

I look at my overgrown belly in the mirror, and the scars life left behind. I see my breasts no longer firm, the wrinkles on my face, the spots on my hands.

Age comes for us all.

I still write. My notebook is always nearby. Pencils and pens are everywhere in the house.

My sweet son is now 31. Faithful, loyal, loving.

“What did you dream last night?” he asks. He never dreams. So,I tell him, just as I would a story.

My dreams are vivid—like movies. Sometimes, they become stories I later use for writing.

I have a website where I post some of my writing, but I don’t promote it. I’m trying to get my stories into a blog as well.