Heidi Mannan
Autobiography
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From the time I could pick up a pen I loved to write. At first it was only my name scrawled across the inside covers of books--humble beginnings, I know--but the act of holding a writing utensil and feeling whatever words I could think of emerge from my tiny hand... that was powerful. Powerful regardless that the words were usually misspelled and sometimes the letters were drawn backwards or upside down. What can people expect from a toddler?
I learned to read long before I started school by watching the words as my mom read them to me. I still remember a few lines of the first book I ever read alone:
Bobby had a nickel all his very own.
Would he buy some candy or an ice cream cone?
Bobby sat and wondered, Bobby sat and thought
what would be the nicest thing a nickel ever bought?
From the beginning, I always hunted down time to write, whether it be in class while my teachers lectured or late at night after the rest of my family went to bed. When I wrote, I found that my feelings and emotions could come out, whereas when I tried to speak them, they stuck in my throat and no matter how hard I tried to straighten them out, they tangled in my brain like many strips of ClingWrap.
Rarely did I let anyone read what I wrote. Not because I was ashamed of it, but because I didn't think anyone else would be interested. It always felt like a personal thing that belonged only to me. Wanting others to look at what I'd written would've been like someone wanting people to look at their warts.
There were those occasions when I did let people read my stories; my high school chemistry teacher is an example. At the end of the year, he told us to hand in our notebooks, which were supposed to be full of chemistry jargon. I flipped through mine, finding not a single page with chemistry on it, but instead several stories and a few pen drawings and a lot of blank space. I handed it in. When my report card came, I could hardly believe I passed the class. Maybe Mr. Chemistry Teacher liked what he'd read. Maybe he just didn't want to see my face in his classroom again. Whatever the case, relieved, confused, but not about to complain, I trudged through the rest of high school as though it were quicksand, stories and words my only life support.
It wasn't until my mid twenties that I discovered I'm not just a person who writes, but a writer. It happened like this:
The dream started sometime during high school. In it I was lost in the halls of the school, not knowing which class I was supposed to go to next. I wandered around asking my friends if they knew. None ever did. I would ask the teachers, who would send me to the office so one of the lunch ladies could print out my schedule for me.
It was always the same. For one reason or another, I could never read the schedule. I'd start to panic, a strange thing since outside the dream I would have seen the inability to find class a great excuse to go snowboarding or to the beach. Instead, I would wander the halls looking at the doors to each classroom. They were all labeled: Math, Science, English, History... But this never helped.
The halls emptied as all the other students found their classes. I wracked my brain, "Is it math? is it English?" The thought of English threw me into further panic because I couldn't remember attending the class since the first couple days of school. "I must be failing English," I would think, and I would wonder again, "Where am I supposed to be?"
As I wandered, I thought it must be math, but when I peeked in the door it looked unfamiliar. This would go on until the dream ended, usually with me waking up and thanking heaven it was only a dream.
After I graduated, the dream stayed with me. I took a year off after school to figure out what I wanted to do with my life. A major turning point took place when I spent a couple months care-taking my grandma's house in the woods while she went to Italy. Alone in a remote and beautiful setting I had the time and quietude I needed to think about what to do.
When I wasn't hiking in the woods I spent most of my time writing. I would write about my personal philosophies, about what I'd seen during my trips into the woods, and about not knowing what I should do with my life. I knew I wanted to do something I enjoyed, I just couldn't figure out what that might be.
Becoming a writer never crossed my mind. I thought of successful writers as superheroes, some hybrid of the human race that possessed magical powers enabling them to create coherent plot twists and characters both interesting and believable. I certainly was no superhero, and my magical powers needed improving. So I decided I should move to Olympia, Washington and study horticulture. My parents knew a guy whose wife had recently gotten a degree in horticulture... and I loved plants... sounded like a good idea... I had to do something. Might as well.
In my classes at college, however, I found myself doing the same thing I'd done all through high school. Writing stories and poems. I quickly realized school was a waste of time and money and got a job in a plant nursery, hoping I could become educated about horticulture that way. I did learn a lot in the field; I also learned that working with plants, you don't make enough money to survive. I decided to broaden my horizons and sent away for a correspondence course in Herbology. I'd always had an interest in health and herbs and all that. But studying at home proved just as fruitless as in school. I'd absorb the reading material, love what I read, go to do the assignments and come away with a bunch of poems and stories.
In April of '97 I married my husband, Hill, and moved back to my hometown of Sandpoint, Idaho. Meanwhile, the dream still visited me during the nights, and I always awoke feeling scared and frustrated.
As I worked my way from another job in a nursery to the shipping department at Thorne Research, I had stories floating through my head, just little thoughts that seemed too large for the short story type things I'd normally write; and I'd think, "That would make a great book. Someone should write that book." Never did it cross my mind that I should be the one to write my own ideas. At some point I had one of these ideas cross my brain that wouldn't leave me alone. Usually they would just casually pass through and I'd get on with wondering what to do with my life. But this idea stuck. It followed me around and nagged me with a fervor that was kind of annoying. It kept building upon itself and growing larger, begging me to write it down and make out of it a book.
Meanwhile, I continued to scribble here and there. One day after reading one of Dean koontz's wonderful books, I just had to write him and tell him how brilliant he is. Just for fun, I included a short story of my own. Several months later I received "Useless News" a newsletter Koontz puts out right before a new book is about to release. To my delight, I also received a handwritten note from the master himself, wishing me luck with my writing , telling me I was good! The shock! The excitement! A super successful writer whom I'd admired for a very long time had read one of my stories and taken the time to comment on it. He acknowledged me as a writer, someone who could possibly even carve a career out of it.
Around this time, a friend of ours, Patrick from Seattle, came to visit. We were in the habit of walking our dog in the middle of the night along the dirt road that ran in front of our house. So one night we were all walking Shika, and Patrick asked a question: something like, "If you could change anything about your life, what would it be?"
I thought about it for several minutes, really thought about it. "I would write books," I said. And for the first time, I realized that was it. I wanted to be a writer. The proverbial light flicked on and made me all warm inside. I started taking more time off from my job at Mark Hall Real Estate (my parents' business, where Hill works as a realtor, too) and started writing the story that had been nagging me. It took about two years, but I finished it. While I was writing the book, I learned about the craft, I read books about writing and unlike my prior experience with schools and courses, I was focused and interested. I was accomplishing something. I was doing the exact thing I'd always been meant to do.
Shortly after I started the book, the dream visited me. I was lost in the halls of my old high school, desperately seeking out where I was supposed to be. It was the same, except as the halls were emptying, I ran into an old friend I haven't seen since junior high and he asked me what was wrong. I told him my predicament and he gave me the you're-an-idiot look he always gave everyone back in middle school. He told me I was in the same class he was in. I was so grateful to finally know where I belonged. I followed him into a classroom and all the friends I'd asked to help me find my way in the hallways were there. I sat among them and asked, "What class is this?" My friend from junior high turned to me, "It's English, stupid."
I haven't had the dream since.
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