Monday, April 6, 2015

Today's NaBloPoMo writing prompt: When you were little, what did you want to be when you grew up?

     When I was younger,  I wanted to be so many things. 

     The first dream career was to be a Doctor.   I loved the idea of lots of school and big thick medical books.   Unfortunately,  when I discovered that Doctors encounter lots of things that are usually beneath the skin.  Also,  I didn't want to hurt anyone or have to tell a family bad news. Or even worse,  tell a patient bad news.

     Then, I realized people get paid to write.  Bingo. I identify with the written word and it has always been a comfort.   I have a hard time relating to people,  but to book characters I have a kinship.  The real world is so disgusting and cruel, but Lucy Maud Montgomery,  Joanna Swift, Madeline L'Engle, and countless others created magical landscapes I can visit anytime.  Even when sad things happen, it is still largely ok. I knew I had stories in me. I started writing actually around four years old. Obviously,  these were not literary masterpieces,  bit they were practice.  How can I write characters who leap off the page? How can I be descriptive without being repetitive? I practiced writing how people spoke. I wrote short stories based on actual events in my life. As I wrote before, my mom encouraged this and would either ask me elaborate or give me a magazine article to write about.   What also appealed to me was the magic of writing.  I could sit outside with my notebooks during the day and by night transcribe my work with a typewriter.  No office would hold me prisoner. My workplace would be on a blanket under trees on a blanket of soft moss.

     I never envisioned having a family.   I wanted at least a boyfriend.   I definitely never saw myself as a mother.  I am not patient.   Also, although I can entertain myself, keeping someone else constantly engaged is a daunting task.  I did want a large group of diverse friends.  I am kind of weird as anyone who reads this blog should be discovering.  I liked Mark Twain,  but I also loved My Teacher is an Alien.  I didn't exactly fit in at school.   I wanted to outgrow my weirdness and have cool friends.  

  I wanted to be beautiful like Whitney Houston.   I wanted a house like Heidi, a simple cottage surrounded by fir trees in the mountains.  I wanted to be content in my own skin and happy with my life.