Unconditional Love
by Amanda Joann Smith

It's March 24th, 2008. I came into this thing with the intention of remaining anonymous, but I feel like I need to be completely honest and not hold back any longer. So, here goes. My name is Amanda, and I am...a writer.

It’s been twenty-eight years, give or take, since my first written word. Until now, I’ve almost been in the closet. I’ve shared my secret with only those I trusted, with people who wouldn’t judge. But lately, it’s getting harder and harder to hide my addiction. I’ve been going to an addiction support group, but they are supporting more writing, not less. Are these people crazy? Probably. Other seasoned writers have warned me to go back, to run toward the light, because actually earning a living at it is damn near impossible. After all, my name is Amanda Joann Smith, not J.K. Rowling or Jodi Picoult. My support group says to embrace my love of writing. But others, jaded from years of rejection, say that gaining success as an author takes a special relationship with words: unconditional love, they say.

Well, I did always love words, but I usually expressed this affection in the form of speech. In kindergarten, my second semester report card read:

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Smith,

Amanda is STILL talking too much. Very often, it distracts and disrupts the class. When she leaves for Mrs. Moore’s gifted program at 10:00, that hour is the most quiet my classroom will be all day. I give her as much busy work as I can, but I need your assistance. Please, encourage her to keep quiet.

Sincerely,
Mrs. Herbert


My mom happily saved that light blue folded card and extorted me into submission as I grew older and easily embarrassed—'about age eleven', she must have wickedly thought, 'and that’ll do it!'

So my parents encouraged me to stop talking; they highlighted other ways to voice my thoughts. They gave me a Cabbage Patch Kids spiral notebook and matching pencil, and I began to write. The notebook filled up quickly, and I was given many more as the years went by. Sometimes I wrote about my dog. Sometimes I wrote about my brother borrowing money from me and never repaying me. (How could a thirteen-year-old be so mean to a seven-year-old? He still owes me twelve bucks.) There were also several pages of "Mrs. Amanda White" and "Amanda J. Hill" and "Amanda (new last name)" scrawled in curly handwriting, as I imagined marrying Andy White or Brian Hill or another cute boy in my class—whoever was nicest to me that week or had flirtatiously given me a friendship bracelet, the sign of ultimate devotion and loyalty when you are a second grader.

Then we moved from sleepy Festus, Missouri, to psychedelic Las Vegas. I guess I was aroused by the bright lights and fancy cars, because I suddenly got a hankering to write my first song. I was eight. The ditty was a terrible little country tune about "rats under them cowboy hats!" Its desperately-rhymed lyrics surely grated on everyone’s ears even worse than the twangy melody. I guess I was a bored little hick, if not a talented one, in a big, weird city. Later, as I got older, I honed this new form of expression as I learned how to read sheet music. Thankfully, the songs got better as I learned to play the piano, and then I could really open up and conjure some musical magic. At least my dog thought they were good. Either that, or she just liked sleeping on my feet while I pressed the piano pedals.

Middle school mentality soon hit, and I turned inward rather than outward. I didn’t like being called on in class and never enjoyed being the center of attention unless I was reading aloud or playing an instrument—simply interpreting someone else’s ideas, not expressing my own. My own inventive thoughts were mine, and I was embarrassed by them. They were my secrets, my self. I felt unable to reveal my writing, my true self, to people and suffered from a paralyzing fear of rejection and humiliation. So I continued writing poetry, songs, and anything else that let me say what I wanted without rejection or criticism from others. But I rarely, if ever, shared it with anyone.

High school was even worse, when I excelled in academics and shined as a musical soloist, but I was crippled at knowing what to say around other kids. Anxiety attacks took over and I hid behind a falsely confident exterior. I masked a hidden person in various ways, fluttering around in an attempt to find a clique and trying to just fit in somewhere. I molded my personality into whoever ’they’ wanted me to be, depending on which group I tried to infiltrate. It proved too much. I stopped writing and didn’t put down any words besides answers to homework and test questions. Inspiration left and depression set in. Not knowing how to open up weighed heavily on my mind, and I did a lot of things, some I now deeply regret, to prove my coolness. I did eventually write again, starting with a suicide note that I never had the guts to send. When I finally could cope with the pressure of high school, I wrote hundreds of songs, shared only with my dog, who at eighty-four in dog years was almost deaf anyway. When she died, so again did my urge to write music or anything else.

Usually a major turning point in a person’s life, college did nothing for me except create bills I couldn’t pay. While I made some great contacts, gained work references, and met some wonderful friends, I still wasn’t myself with anyone—not even the husband I’d somehow prematurely collected during this time. I suspected that the ability to express my own hidden thoughts, or at least the confidence to express them, had somehow been lost with my youth. We’d married young, and I thought I knew the man-boy to whom I’d pledged my life, but apparently I knew him as well as he knew (didn’t know) me. I finally revealed that I wanted to be a writer of some kind, and he was nice enough not to disturb me as I sat in our home office typing most nights. The more I wrote, the more I wanted to write; it felt wonderful and intoxicating and amazing! Amazing, too, were the ample breast implants on the women my husband (allegedly) checked out on porn sites using the same computer when I wasn’t home. Thanks to Bimbo2Nite—or was it Slut4U?—a dirty little virus wiped out everything I’d written. I stupidly hadn’t backed my book up on disk, so every file was compromised. All my words were deleted, and soon, so was my marriage.

Divorce and the sobering issues of adulthood transformed me into a company bee, mindless and numb, droning inside the corporate hive. I was on auto life, overworked and uninspired. I typed PowerPoint slides and created report covers—not the great American novel. Then I met a cute new guy named David, an engineer from England, and I perked up. This handsome import came complete with James Bond’s accent and quick wit. He must’ve liked me, too, because we spent all our free time with each other, moved in together, and eventually created a little hybrid, a brown-eyed beauty we would later call Sophie. Something inside me (maybe the fetus, or just gas?) was stirring again. Not just because it was ’the cool new thing’ for pregnant women to do, but because I suddenly got an insatiable urge, I decided to write a letter to this unborn child. In case something happened to me during delivery, I wanted this person to know who her mommy was. I told her my feelings and my hopes and dreams. I opened up to this stranger. The letter turned into a book of everything I ever (and never) wanted the world to know about me. I also wrote poetry and short stories and songs again. I got a new computer that actually worked and started typing my ideas—and saving them on disk. A typing fool, I filled a floppy a week. I was on roll, as they say. My role was writer, and I thrived.

Then motherhood came, with its sleepless nights and spit-stained clothes, and I didn’t have time to write even when inspiration did strike. My newest persona was Supermommy, the ultimate sacrificer—the chubby lady with no thoughts beyond anything related to breast-milk or diapers or pureed vegetables. Or at least that’s who I thought I was supposed to be. There were moments I wanted to hold on to, like all of Sophie’s firsts, which I’d quickly jot down and then shove into her baby book. She rolled over; she crawled; she said "Dada" and "Mama" and "Puppy." She swaggered like a drunk, with her "spill-proof" sippy cup of milk dripping across the floor as our puppy trailed behind licking it up. Maybe I didn’t have time to write, but motherhood made me laugh until I cried. I wanted to share these stories with the world.

It was Sophie herself, not simply those milestones or funny moments, who began to inspire me. Her body grew so quickly from baby to toddler to preschooler, but her spirit stayed the same, and soon I got the chance to teach her to read and write. She fell in love with reading and wanted to write her own books, and to my delight, she did. Her reaction to the world around her was natural and unspoiled, and her complete honesty—Sophie’s inability to hide her true self—seemed magical to me. As soon as she got ideas, whether about ponies or flying castles or other girly fantasies, she shared them. She scribbled them onto paper using her little "invented spellings." Sophie revealed herself without hesitation, and she expressed her emotions immediately. She didn’t hold back, ever. She loved unconditionally. I watched in awe, and my child became my muse.

Slowly, Amanda the Writer, not Supermommy or Wonderwife, emerged. I got the urge to write silly anecdotes about my preschool-level conversations with Sophie. I called the stories "Sophieisms." Mustering the courage to share these with my family, my words were thankfully met with laughs and cheers and encouragement to write more. I was elated, glowing from within. I soon discovered the probable other source of that glow: pregnancy. I penned more Sophieisms, and again I found myself writing letters to an unnamed, unseen person. I couldn’t get the thoughts down fast enough. I knew the arrival of another child would erase any extra time I had, deleting my would-be writing like the backspace button deletes half-hearted words. When Thomas joined our family, I attempted Supermom status again, with less success than when there was only one child to appease. The only things I wrote were checks to pediatricians, thank-you notes for baby gifts, and grocery lists. If I was lucky, I could type an uncharacteristically thought-out e-mail to a friend—instead of the usual one-sentence reply—until a preschooler or baby woke up and demanded my attention.

Thomas was four months old and Sophie was three-and-a-half when I realized I needed some adult interaction or I was going to jump off the freaking roof. Having completely lost my own identity like many mothers do, I’d all but forgotten about my desire to write. Needing the ’me’ time and wanting to appear studious and sophisticated, I joined a book club. At my first meeting, I learned that the following month’s novel was a boring one I’d already read; I didn’t want to waste time reading it again! Discouraged, I prayed for something in my life besides babies, bottles, Barney, and badly-spelled books about magical ponies. A non-motherhood thought emerged, and I nonchalantly mentioned to the book club coordinator that what I really wanted to do was write. For years, Jennifer had been the activities coordinator for the community center. She said, like it was common sense, "So start a writing group. I’ll bet a lot of writers in Maryland Heights would enjoy that."

"Oh, I’m not really a writer," I said, shaking my head. I found it amusing that anyone would call me that. Exactly twice in my life, pushy professors had told me to enter my work in local contests. I actually won both contests, but I still didn’t think my writing warranted publication. Okay, so my family liked it. Big whoop. It’s like a mom saying her kid looks beautiful when the little darling waltzes out wearing crooked pig tails, neon green parachute pants, tri-color socks, and a hot-pink zippered jacket. Just because a little girl likes to strut around in funky clothes, it doesn’t make her a fashion model. Just because I had the urge to write, it did not make me a writer.

"Well, let me know if you change your mind." Jennifer gave me her card and walked out. That night I drove away knowing I would likely arrive home to a dirty diaper, a tantrum, or something unpleasant which didn’t involve adult conversation or thoughts. After dinner, I let Thomas finger-paint on his highchair tray with mashed bananas while Sophie and I sat at the table and colored. We were illustrating her newest book, complete with invented spelling and titled 'PONEES GO TO SKOOL'. It was the fifth in her pony series. Sophie shelved her masterpiece, I hosed off the cruddy baby, and I heard my brain screaming for a creative outlet that didn’t involve Crayola or Gerber. Or ponies! It finally registered that trying to be the perfect mother would never allow me the time to write; I needed something to make me make time for writing. I called Jennifer.

A few weeks later, my appeal to form a local writing group was posted in the town newsletter. I waited, involuntarily bit my nails, and prayed not to make a fool of myself. Who did I think I was? Hemingway? The first meeting approached, and I almost chickened out. But I went. I introduced myself and put on my best ’professional’ act (which I’m now told came off as ’cold.’ Meryl Streep I was not!) I explained that the purpose of the group was to write and then read our pieces to the group, who would constructively critique the piece. The others liked this proposal, and Maryland Heights Writers, which we later named The Write Group of St. Louis was formed. They say to 'write what you know,' so my first piece was about my kids, who even though I wanted a break from, inspired me. The group actually liked it. Relief! But I had no idea they would eventually do more than give a wanna-be writer some encouragement and a worn-out mommy some much needed adult interaction and ’me’ time. They gave me praise and fresh ideas, made suggestions for improvement, told me I needed to start submitting my work, said they had faith in me--and eventually became some of my very best friends.

Two years and two months after that first meeting, I stand before you today to announce, "I am a writer." I never want to live without writing again, whether I get published or not. I am deeply in love with the written word. The act itself intoxicates me. I now go to bed thinking about what I’m going to write the following day, and I wake up with ideas that I can’t jot down or type fast enough. I often skip breakfast—and my beloved cup of Folger’s—and go straight to my PC to try getting in (out) some words before the kids wake up. Everywhere, I find—rather, make—opportunities to write. Even at stoplights, I scribble notes about a possible name for a character or a funny line the protagonist might say. I’m always looking for my next chance to crank out a piece. Yes, I’m badly addicted. Members of The Write Group of St. Louis, a.k.a. my addiction support group, repeatedly tell me during their critique that I’ve got what it takes to be a successful writer. I know they’re not biased due to being in my family, but I still lack that elusive confidence. I still doubt them—and myself. But I keep writing. While I have experienced some rejection, with each meeting I am getting bolder and braver about actually submitting my work to publishers, agents, and other venues. It's like winning the lottery: I'll never win if I don't buy a ticket. So this year, I'm stocking up. Watch out, world!

Whether or not my work is ever seen in mass print, whether or not I receive fame and fortune for my writing, I wanted this site and whoever might read it to know:

Amanda Joann Smith is, wholeheartedly, a writer. Even while writing this essay, my 'outing', I've been inspired once again. It's a snowball effect.

This is my ’Ode to Writing,’ if you will:

Can I hug a hyperbole?

Kiss a comma?

Snog* a sentence?

Marry a modifier?

Romp with rhyme?

Fornicate with fiction?

Oh, writing! How you never fail me and are my faithful companion;

Whether I am rawng or wright,

You are always there for me.

You allow me to be my true self

And you’ve never, ever judged me.

You are my obsession,

My passion,

My one true love.

You have outed me now,

But that’s okay,

Because I love you,

Unconditionally.




(*FYI, 'snog' is what British people say for kiss/make-out. It's one of their many weird words that I shake my head at, at first—then start using in my own writing. Damn Brits.)

Posted by The Write Group of St. Louis on Apr 14, 2008 3:04 PM
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Amanda Joann Smith works from her Maryland Heights, Missouri, home—or she at least tries to work despite the constant distractions of motherhood and housewifery. She (sometimes reluctantly) resides with her two little kids, Thomas the Ankle Biter and Sophie the Human Tornado, and their father, David, a stereotypical Brit from jolly olde England.

Living with and taking care of three demanding people began to drive the poor woman crazy. At times she was tempted to run far, far away to escape her chaotic world. Instead, she began writing (and writing and writing) about it. Eventually, she was invited to lead a local writing group at a community centre, where she received so much encouragement from fellow would-be authors that she decided to put her essays and anecdotes into an ever-growing compilation.

"Mom's-Eye View: A Collection of Tales from One Mommy's Mad, Wonderful World" includes chapter headings such as:

Tales From the Crib

Imperfection At Its Best

On Speaking American

Reasons I Keep Poison Control on Speed Dial


From a poignant essay on how she received the news of her mother’s death while still trying to make sense of her own motherhood; to anecdotes on calling Poison Control thanks to her toddler’s penchant for Play-Doh and other non-foods; to a hilarious account of her preschooler’s incessant questions (where she compares the inquisitive child to a prosecuting attorney), Ms. Smith's first collection of essays is at least cathartic—if not also a bestseller.

Posted by The Write Group of St. Louis on Jul 11, 2008 12:51 AM
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