Long before I would ever think of myself as a writer, my
grade twelve English teacher took it upon herself to decide for me.
To my great annoyance, Mrs. Coy thought it was her duty to
convince me to enter a fiction story I had written for her class to a National
high school writing contest. Tiny in stature, she made up for it in
determination and no amount of hiding out in the crowded hall ways deterred
her from hunting me down and lecturing me about entering the contest. Finally I
relented and submitted my story… and placed first for Alberta! No one was more
shocked than I was and no one was more pleased than Mrs. Coy. Yet it still didn’t
register with me that I was a writer. I chalked it up to simple, good fortune.
A few years later I remembered my good fortune and
wondered if there was more to it. So I took a writer’s course through the
Institute of Children’s Literature. I quickly became frustrated with the instructor
wanting me to write to set rules and regulations. My style had always been to just
let it flow, often with no knowledge of how the plot would develop or how it
was going to end. I did finish the course but wondered if writing really was
for me as I didn’t seem to fit the mold.
Years later, in need of a job, I applied for a position as a
reporter for the local newspaper. It was with much trepidation that I ventured
into the world of writing news reports, meeting tight deadlines and
interviewing and reporting on many local, provincial and sometimes national
events and leaders. My confidence in myself as a writer and more importantly, a
new found love for writing, grew. It was also a time of honing my writing to
fit word counts and to write to the precise guidelines of an editor. Going with
the flow had to take a back seat to discipline and my editors quick, red pen. During
this time I also branched out and began writing life lesson columns for a city
newspaper. Eventually we moved to that city and I took a job as a freelance
reporter and columnist for the newspaper there, where I covered local and
provincial/national news, sports, politics, arts and much more. I had many
amazing experiences as a reporter and cherish every last opportunity. Mainly, I
cherish the people I met, so different from one another, yet each with a story.
I developed my interview skills and learned to read faces and nuances that
prompted me to search for deeper clarity. I sharpened my editing skills and by
the end of my newspaper days, there weren’t many red marks if any, on my copy.
Since those days I’ve struggled to find a new place for my
writing. At times I’ve deeply grieved the loss of having someplace to regularly
see my words in print. It reminds me of another time when I was convinced I
might never have the opportunity to write again. While out walking in the pasture,
I spotted what looked like a chunk of glass embedded in the soil and nudged at
it with my foot. To my surprise out popped an antique ink bottle. How had that
gotten there? And how did I manage to find it? I knew right then that God was using
a little, unearthed ink bottle to give me my very own message in a bottle. Eureka! I was a writer.
Now, that little bottle sits in my cabinet as a symbol of the
moment that I knew I was and always will be, a writer. I look at it often these
days while I hope and search for new opportunities to come my way and pray for the courage to take them
when they do.
