A Blog by Oyah Beverly A. Scott

I had scribbled furiously as if a woman possessed.  Now, I sat before Leigh, my new counselor, whose opinion I trusted more than I did my own. With trembling hands, I unfolded the white sheet of notebook paper and read rapidly as if the words would fly away and leave me speechless. I finished abruptly and sighed deeply while searching Leigh’s stone face.

Wow, she said.

Wow, what?

That’s very interesting.

What do you mean by interesting? Never mind, don’t reply, I said, gathering myself and rising to leave her office.

Wait a minute. Listen. She leaned forward in her chair. I liked it. I liked it very much. Where’d you find it?

Find it? I wrote it!

Sure you did, Leigh said, sarcastically.

No, I said more boldly. I wrote it. Let me explain. I was standing in the kitchen and all of a sudden I got this feeling. It was as if something was welling up inside of me. Like the way tears rise but it felt different––better––and I just knew I was supposed to get a pen and paper. I started writing what was pushing itself out of me and I felt excited and afraid like someone was chasing me and when the words stopped coming, I felt relief as if I had gotten away from something dangerous. I looked on the paper and there was this poem.

Leigh sat back, pushed her glasses back, and said, It’s good. This is really good. I thought someone had given it to you or you had found it in a book.

I was stunned by her comments.

Does this happen often? she asked.

I only remember this happening to me one other time.

I was fifteen and trapped on the stairs by my raging alcoholic father. It was the same urgent need to find pen and paper and then the words told themselves on the paper. They flowed from my pen like an unspoken stream.

Wow, she said, again. You must be a writer, a poet even.

A what?

A writer.

I felt confused, as if there must be someone else in the room with us that Leigh was speaking about. I could not get that she was talking about me.

Could that be possible for me? I asked.

Yes, yes of course, Leigh assured me. It is more than possible it is true. You are a writer.

In this life I have been called many things––and most of them cut like a knife. But this idea that I had a thing I could be called, a name to call myself––writer or poet––that describes what comes from my being, that isn’t fear or sadness. Oh my, my, my. I was sure Leigh was making this up. It was too good to be true. I had to know the truth.

Are you trying to be kind?

Beverly, I know you are a writer. It is very clear to me. Why don’t you say it?

Say it? I can’t––

Just repeat after me––I––

I––

am––

am––

a––

a––

writer.

writer.

I Beverly Ann Reed am a writer.

I Beverly Ann Reed am a writer.

I said it, but I could say no more. The release of tears weakened my knees and took me to the floor. I hugged and rocked myself gently. I am a writer. I am a writer I am a writer.