the writing on the wall

I learned to read so early on in life that I don't even remember the process. I can clearly remember sitting down with my parents, or my aunts, and reading such poignant children's literature that it stirred emotional places within me that I hadn't even discovered yet. I remember falling in love with Chris Van Allsburg and The Polar Express on Christmas Eve 1991. I remember sobbing mournfully for The Velveteen Rabbit. I remember desperately wishing that Winnie had chosen to drink from the spring in Tuck Everlasting, but intuiting how important it was that she had lived the course of a natural life. And, of course, I had wanted a Secret Garden of my very own. I can remember sitting on the steps of our apartment with a generic chapter book, sounding out the more difficult words, and outright asking my mother for help when necessary. What does S-C-H-E-D-U-L-E spell? Schedule. That's ridiculous. That looks nothing like "schedule". Reading was always a powerful experience to me, and I consumed books voraciously. I hoarded words. There was such beauty in learning, and I absorbed everything I could about the world. My first, most sincere love affair was born.

At five years old, I remember reading Roald Dahl at my grandmother's kitchen table, and being in awe of the power of books to wholly transport you to another time and place-- even places I could never go without them-- for example, inside the minds and emotional worlds of other people. These stories, I thought, were magic; their authors, magicians. I wanted to harness that power, to hone their craft. I wanted to learn all of its secrets. It was the closest I have ever come to understanding a "calling". I felt quite sure that this was what I was meant to do with my life, and I dove in with the earnest enthusiasm reserved only for a child or a dreamer. I had been both.

I spent the years that followed immersing myself in elective classic literature, reading books in restaurants, and scrawling away hilarious journal entries and melodramatic poetry. When assigned to write a pretend resume for my dream job in a middle school journalism class, I spoke with my teacher in between periods.

"I want to write books," I told Mrs. Eddington. "How do I write a resume if I want to write books?"

 She considered the assignment, "Choose something else. Just for your homework."

I ended up writing a pretend resume and application for a job as the eponymous rodent at Chuck E. Cheese. "Where do you see yourself in 10 years?" the fake application demanded.

"Working as Mickey Mouse at Disney World."

When I was around 12, my mom asked me what I really wanted to do with my life.

"I want to be a writer," I said, with the unwavering certainty reserved only for a child or a dreamer. I had been both.

"I know," she said. "But what do you really want to do?"

"...Write..."

"Writing is a wonderful hobby, and I know you're talented enough to be anything you want to be. But a lot of becoming a successful writer is luck. You'll need a real job, too. As a backup."

My mother is the most beautiful of all pragmatists in all the world, and I will write more another day on the example of endless selflessness and love that I was fortunate enough to bear witness to, and grateful to call my mom. She is truly among the most beautiful human beings I've ever known, and time has proven that she certainly wasn't wrong. But I was so locked in to one vision of my future that I couldn't even think about the notion that I would ever do anything else as a career. I could become a nurse, or a doctor, I supposed; the human body was fascinating. I could go into social work or psychology, talking to people about their problems and helping them sift through them; I was a good listener, and naturally fell into this role within my group of friends. I could become a teacher and stand up in front of a classroom, lecturing on any number of fascinating topics. My problem wasn't disinterest-- it was that nearly everything else held the same vague appeal. I felt incapacitated by what I considered Barbie syndrome-- I equally wanted to be the pilot, and the veterinarian, and the paleontologist.

I've never quite worked my way out from under the weight of that feeling. Despite the many and varied jobs I've held to eke out a living, I've always identified as a writer.

For decades, I have done the prep work. I have studied the craft, experienced the world, and filled journal after journal with the fruit of those days. I have lived. I have written. I have read.

But I somehow missed the writing on the wall: you can't be afraid of what you were born to do. Even if it is terrifying. Even if it seems ridiculous, or if others don't understand it. Even if takes everything you have and everything you are in order to find the courage to do it. This blog is a start.