Who Am I?

Who am I?

I have been pondering that question for quite a bit longer than I’ve been procrastinating writing this piece. Maybe it’s because, as a writer, I’m always trying to work out what the ending might be. Before I commit to writing a piece, I need to have at least some idea where my story is going. When I’m watching a movie, I’m always trying to imagine what the next plot point will be. So, when I’m trying to write the story of “Who am I,” well, I still haven’t figured out how it ends.

So, it’s a challenge.

I decided I might try to think about cover art and media for this piece first. What sort of picture would best capture me? Would it be funny? Lonely? Sassy? Misunderstood? How do I paint a picture of someone who has a life full of music, joy, laughter, and friendship, but who has also had grief, desperation, despair, and tragedy? I don’t have the skill of fellow creator, Casey Promise Thompson, who is able to weave a tapestry of words over a canvas of her own visual stories.

Maybe my picture should be a sad clown. A harlequin whose brightness has eroded, revealing a vintage patina, scarred by time and tragedy. Maybe I’m the aging burlesque dancer, pushing my boobs up and painting on a seductive smile. Maybe I’m the warm sun reflecting on a deep, deep pool.

Layers, man…I gots layers.

I thought of finding some sort of silhouette of a woman, with jigsaw pieces missing and light filtering through. An image of me not yet whole…

Then I realized I had it backwards. I’m not missing bits that I haven’t found yet. I’ve got all my pieces. I’m entirely intact. I’ve just buried the bits of myself – the grief, the anxiety, the fear, the rage, the self-doubt, the lonely, the capable, the brave, the ambitious, the worthy – I’ve buried it all so deep, for so long, that I’m more like a flower unfolding its petals – slowly, with the utmost caution.

I’m discovering more about myself every, single time I make an effort to look.

Well, I guess we decided on the cover art. Next, where does the story begin? Do I go all the way back to my caesarian birth? My nerdy, academic, pseudo-hippy, contemporary Christian, Midwestern-nice parents? Or do I start with how I won the 5th grade reading challenge and wanted to grow up, become a famous YA author, and write books that my crush, (and presumed future husband,) Jim Arehart, would illustrate? Maybe I start with my teenage hopes for superstardom as a singer-actor, or how my mom’s death when I was 16 has impacted every moment of my life since. Or my first marriage and becoming a mom. My awesome son, and my bonus kids, and the kids that I work with at my “day job” as a behavior therapist. Perhaps we should start with my divorce – a huge point of transition and self-discovery! Maybe I tell you about finding all new sides of myself when I started dating as a middle-aged person. When I started a blog after so many people told me that I ought to write a book.

There are many possible beginnings to my autobiography. Many petals to unfold – each one a story waiting to be discovered, written, and maybe even shared. Writing is my therapy.

My name is Allison Rice. I am 51 years old – a fact that I find astonishing on multiple levels. There have been many times in my life when I did not have control. Where I was a bit of detritus floating along in the gutter, with no say in determining the outcome or direction of my world. Now I write bits about me, or bits about fictional people who were formed of bits of me. In the stories that I make up, I give them power. I give them awareness, confidence, resolve, orgasms, love, insight…happy endings. I give these characters, these bits of myself, control.

I live in the greater Seattle area with my hot, sexy, younger spouse. I marvel every day at how lucky we were to find each other. We’re an amazing fit, and he compliments my life in so many wonderful and unexpected ways. I wrote about him in a Halloween piece that I did for Vocal that received Top Story honors. That story takes place before the accident that changed our lives forever. My husband has a traumatic brain injury and post concussive syndrome. It’s been a really rough road these past few years, and I once again found myself in a situation where I didn’t have much power. COVID made worse that sense that life was far beyond my control. It’s been hard.

Every day, in my job, I hear myself saying “use your words.” Only recently did I start to consider taking my own advice. I have decided to use my words to tell stories about my life, about feelings that I often struggle to express, about memories that I haven’t shared, and characters that haven’t yet been born. It’s scary to put myself out there, to take risks, to do something new. I am working on using my words to speak my truth. For example: for the past decade or so, I have had a secret blog about my life, divorce, dating, and relationships. I write there (infrequently now,) under the pen name of “The Risqué Divorcée” and I recently started publishing some of my old blog entries in the FILTHY community at Vocal under my real name for the first time. Ten years ago, that would have been my absolute worst nightmare. Now it’s a bunch of fun and sometimes wildly raunchy stories that I’ve been enjoying revisiting and sharing. I have to admit that RD is full of more sass, snark, and swagger than Allison Rice is most days, but she’s also 100% me. Just a bawdy, ribald, kind of dirty version of me. She’s me when I’m strong and sexy, not vulnerable and uncertain.

A friend recently told me that I’m more of a novel than a short story. At first, I thought that she hit the nail on the head – I always have so much to say! But I wonder if it mightn’t be more apt to say I’m an anthology or a serial. A collection of stories, making up a larger compilation, with the possibility of a sequel at a future date.

I am Allison Rice, and I’m a writer.

My story is just getting started.

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