Why Writing Marla?

Why not? I’ll probably have to write an entire essay or poem about it now, but ultimately, here it is in a nutshell:

• I like writing.
• My name is Marla.
• I’ve written on and off–mostly on–my entire life. My mother loved to pilfer through my bedroom and find my diaries, written in grape-scented marker. There’s another essay.
• As I form the words, the words form me, the core of who I am. Writing is part of my identity. When everything else is boiled away, I’ll still be holding a pen in my hand. Bury me with a blue Uniball Vision Elite.

I write poetry, essays, and the occasional short story. I’m also quite skilled in writing grant proposals, improvement plans, and curricular supports, all thanks to almost thirty years of working in public education in the state of Alabama, and, what’s more, I could even do all this before AI ever existed!

I’ve worked as an English and Spanish teacher, an assistant principal, and a high school principal. Being a principal is like being a dog in that each year of a principalship contains the equivalent stress of three to five years of other educational roles. That means I can go ahead and die, right?

Nah, because I’ve finally gotten to the age where I’ve figured out that I did some good over the years in my school roles. It was all worth it–the stress, the early mornings and late nights, the worries, and the learning–both what the students did, but mostly, what I’ll take away when it’s all done. I’d redo some things if I could, but then again, don’t we all feel like that?

But one thing I don’t want to regret is to get to the end of my life and realize that I could have done more with my writing. I remember sitting at the kitchen table when I was small, or in my bedroom floor, or in my desk at school, and loving the way that the thoughts flowed. I didn’t mind the ache in my hand as I tried to write quickly, before the ideas vanished. Anytime I needed to think through a situation, I’d find myself with a pencil or pen, sorting it all out on paper. I’ve filled countless notebooks and journals with my ramblings, for the blank page is both my confidant and my muse.

And I can’t forget God, the Master Creator, because He hasn’t forgotten me. In fact, His needling ways finally broke through my hard shell of protection and my desire to keep my light under a bushel.

You who create can understand. It doesn’t matter whether our masterpiece is a painting or a quilt or a crocheted frog, we are prone to thinking we’re not good enough. Perfectionist tendencies are a prison, y’all, but God says don’t worry about being perfect.

We are valued, and we are made in His image.

He’s given all of us a talent or ability that both satisfies our need for self-worth and that we can use to help others.

God made me to be a daughter, a mother, and a wife. He made me to love His creation, whether animals, plants, rocks, water, or people. He made me to love words, to read and understand, and to be someone who could use that ability to do more than just keep my thoughts locked away in diaries stashed between the mattresses.

He’s given me the strength to carry on through some pretty crazy life experiences, ones that have left me preferring to live life in a cave rather than wake up, put on my lipstick, and greet the world with a smile.

I know one thing: it’s those things that sometimes make the best stories.

So now, I let the world see. I don’t hide my diary anymore.

He made me to be a writer.

Writing Marla, specifically.

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