by Leigh Lincoln
This might appear a rather obvious statement. However, if you’re unaware of my back story, you might not understand the power this declaration holds. You see, I wrote my first book accidentally. But in doing so, I discovered my voice.
For most of my life, I’ve helped others. Volunteering at homeless shelters, soup kitchens, committees for first-time home buyers, the list goes on. I’m not trying to brag. To me, these didn’t feel important.
One day, I attended a community meeting on a topic of interest to me. However, the person in charge kept pointing to someone else, allowing them to speak rather than me. Various people who hadn’t been involved in this committee as long as I had been. Nor had they helped with as many events as I had. Nor had they done as much hard work as I had. But they were people who had standing in town. People with important jobs or ran businesses. People who had political capital. People who weren’t me.
At the end of the session, I approached the person in charge to share my thoughts with him privately. The response I got, a flat-out ‘no.’ Because I was just a woman, just a single mom, just a volunteer, I didn’t have the right education, the right experience. Oh, he rattled on a few more excuses. It would’ve taken him less time to listen to my comments than for me to hear his excuses. He’d disregarded me, had come to a snap decision that anything I had to say would be worthless.
I was forgettable. I was unimportant. I was weak. I was powerless. I was invisible. I was nobody.
The reality of the situation hit me as I left the building. Being overlooked wasn’t something new. This happened to me rather often and I’d had enough. I went home angry, confused, frustrated, sad, hurt. And pulled out a notebook, put pen to page, began pouring out my feelings. All of those times others told me I’d been a ‘just a’ whatever and not good enough spilled out of me. That night, the next night, every night for several months. Pages and pages were filled. At some point, I examined what I’d written. And it dawned on me, I’d flipped from writing about me to writing from the perspective of a homeless woman. I had the basis of a novel, something that might change a few hearts and minds.
With a lot of hard work, I managed to self-publish Road Home, albeit in a rather raw, emotional form. Even the best of editors can only do so much when you hand them a hot mess. My goal for the book was rather simple: raise awareness of homelessness and raise money for charity. Never did I think I’d sell more than a few copies. However, the novel became quite popular, and a few people asked me to speak about homelessness. I’d gone from being ignored to being an expert overnight.
The box everyone had put me in shifted, became larger, it wouldn’t hold me for much longer. As I dared to look at myself in a new light, I wondered ‘What am I if I’m not a ‘just a…’ Not an easy question to answer. I’m an author. Yes, I could accept this new label. But there had to be more to me than that. I’d been following all of these rules that society had put on me for so long, it took some effort to see beyond those. Okay, throw out the rules. Start from scratch, create something amazing.
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