When I was quite young – maybe seven or eight – most of the people who knew me were convinced that I was going to grow up to be a creative writer. By the time I was 15, I had convinced a lot of other people – from my English teachers to local papers to a couple of national magazines – that I was going to be a poet – and, by the way, that I was NEVER really going to grow up.
By the time I finished college and went off to acquire several higher degrees and a student loan debt equivalent to the GDP of the average banana republic, I was publishing fiction and poetry (”on the side”) in the company of some really amazing people (whom I won’t name because that would be bragging), encouraged by a number of people* to quit doing things that gave me hives and just write, already.
I almost did it. In fact, the closest I came was when a wonderful, wonderful boyfriend asked me to move in and write. But I didn’t. I was scared. Terrified. Instead, I made myself miserable until I found a profession I loved (teaching) that encouraged me to write about completely bizarre stuff and left time to sneak in a little creative writing.
Well, that high-powered career is on hiatus now, partly because of other idiot decisions I made, partly because of the economy. So I’m teaching a little, writing for money a little, and using the little time I have time to try what I’ve wanted to do for years : just write.
This blog is how I’m going to keep myself honest: a place to record what I’m writing, keep copies of entries to writing exercises, whinge about how hard it is to run after a bright kid and keep a variety of non-human animals from tearing the house down, and suggest various activities we’d all enjoy watching former hedge fund directors engage in.
Consider yourselves warned.
*in particular, the late Arturo Islas, who I’ll never stop missing, not just because of the writing thing, but because he was a just great great guy