One year ago I sat down and began this project, having put it off for the previous 42 years. There were journals full of notes, and pages and pages of scribbling stashed away in the empty spaces in my brain, having spent years writing down my every thought and observation. Of course when I actually sat down to write what I found was that it was today that interested me most, and how today interacted with yesterday, and the day before.
In third grade, when I won the blue ribbon for creative writing at the curriculum fair, I decided I wanted to be a writer when I grew up. But that was third grade, things change, there were the architect years, the Supreme Court Justice years, the Senator years, the political journalist years and the graphic designer years. Then I went to college and had no idea what I wanted to do, none, and so I majored in political science and communications and went to work as a waitress. That didn't last, thankfully.
At 42 I have almost accepted that my dreams of winning Olympic gold may have to be shelved. There is still hope for the Academy Award, Jessica Tandy won at 80, but as I have no acting or directing or costume designing skills or aspirations, I may need to let that go as well. But I can still write, maybe not well, but prolifically.
It now appears that at eight I had a good read on who I was supposed to be, had I only listened to myself years ago. But then I would also think that my Dad was Superman, tomatoes were disgusting and Bubble Yum was the most amazing invention ever, no question. I want to be a writer, not when I grow up, but now.
And of course happy birthday Barry Manilow!