About me

Aspiring to be me? It was a catchy and mostly true title. When people asked what I wanted to be when I grew up the answer was no where near where I ended up being today at age 36 (and a half). Ever since I learned to put two sentences together the only thing I ever imagined being was a great writer. Funny looking back on school, I failed every English or literature class, yet excelled in Creative Writing, Journalism, and even won a summer writing scholarship to USC in the 9th grade. I always found English classes to be dreary and confined to such boring laws. Maybe I just didn't want to write about how butterflies made me feel, or maybe I just assume put that coma some place where it made sense to me. That was the reason I loved creative writing classes; no restrictions, no rules, just me and a big giant imagination.

So how did I end up where I am today? because, like many people I imagine, paying the bills versus dreams of being the next Tennesse Williams or these days Nicholas Sparks, won out hands down. It's kind of like hearing your kid say he wants to be an actor, musician, or model, you encourage the dream but push for a realistic plan B. My realistic plan B has landed me far from my original dream. Plan B has put me in a very safe position as far as money and job security go, but sanity wise it has made me ever so much more aware of how far I have traveled from my dream.

Sufficed to say I am lacking in what I am preaching to my kids. I tell them to follow their dreams, as long as it is realistic. You ever watch American Idol? Have you ever just wondered how some of those parents let their monotone and tone def kids get up there? Let's be realistic people. I'd love it if my kid could be a professional skateboarder, but the truth is that's proably not in his future. And until today I just assumed writing was not in mine.

Don't get me wrong, I have been writing since grade school, just nothing I ever finished because at the climax I would have to face myself in the mirror, and being my on worse critic would ask of myself, "you really think people care what you have to say?" I have feared rejection my entire life when it comes to my thoughts. You could easily put down my style of dress, my behavior, my mannerism and I would take it with a grain of salt...but reject my thoughts and I'd be reduced to a pilar of salt.

I am at a crossroads in my life. I spent the last ten years of it to attain a goal I am not completely happy with. I convinced myself for years that this was the right path, but now that I am here I am convinced that I chose the wrong road and went for safety rather than bliss. I chose something I could do over something I long to do. But safety does not bring me happiness, I don't think my newly prescribed Prozac will either. Truth is I won't find my happy place at my job, at school, in my marriage, or in my kids...don't get me wrong these things are great and I find a different sense of happiness in each one, but to attain true self-actualization (as Maslow puts it) I have to be able to find internal happiness. I truly believe when I find that place I will be a better person. After all, it isn't easy being a beaming ray of sunshine when you feel like a storm cloud is lingering over your head. I love my children, cherish my family, and am thankful for an education, but there is a void none of that can fill, maybe you can relate?

I have six unfinished pieces of literature on my hard drive and at least another dozen stories brewing in my head. I have a full-time job and I'm a full time mother, but I have decided to take a major leap toward my sanity. These stories call me, they live in my head and haunt me until I put them on paper, even if only in rough draft. These characters are so real sometimes I catch myself having conversations just to get at the plot. Someone close to me once discovered I wanted to write and he said something that will always stay with me, "writers scare me. You always see them talking to themselves." Funny just how true that is. Some people may read this part and just think I'm crazy, but some of you readers might smirk just a bit at how true it is.

My goal is to finish just one story despite my busy and intrusive life. One year, one story. In one year I can boast that I am no longer a writer but an author. Maybe it will satisfy that need to finally finish something I conjured up in my head. Perhaps it will be some big great break through and I'll get a huge publishing deal and can write full time (it could happen). Or just maybe, it will put things in perspective and I'll simply be content to be me as plan B.
A change is in order never-the-less. My heart is racing and aching just to think about the challenge. I've never really put myself out there to be criticized, especially about something so personal. Oh how I do fear rejection. But I'm gona do it. I am going to dare to live my dream.
I met a man once and we had a nice conversation. He asked me what I really wanted to do in life and I told him I wanted to be a writer but was afraid of rejection. He asked me if I had ever written anything and I nodded but explained it was only for me to see. This strange man laughed and said, "it doesn't matter if anyone ever sees it. If you wrote it then you're a writer."
Here goes. . .