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February 7, 2004
Dreams of Childhood
When I first think back about what I dreamed I would become once I was all grown up, a typical outlandish fantasy comes to mind. I went through a faze where I wanted to be Wonder Woman. We both had long dark hair and blue eyes?the physical resemblance was uncanny. I had the Under-roos for it, too, an undershirt and underwear that matched her outfit exactly. Coupled with my red rubber rain boots, I was set. Armed with my superhuman powers, I would sneak through the hallways of my childhood home, pretending to hunt down dangerous criminals, ready to thwart him, her, or it as I turned every corner and peered around every doorway. At my afternoon daycare, I would lift up my shirt (and once even my dress) to show my comrades my perfect Wonder Woman custom, disguised in the form of underwear. I also had a set of Spiderman, which drew more admiration from the boys.
I quickly grew out of the superhero phase, probably shortly after I grew out of the Under-roos. Music was the next logical step, as daughter of a drummer in a band.
The predetermined course of a career in music followed me from childhood through puberty, into adolescence and, consequently, to college as a Music Major as Indiana University. I had piano and voice lessons, did choral shows, recitals, and for a long time pretended I had the lifestyle of the various musicians my father introduced to me. I was Linda Ronstadt, belting out rock ?n roll at the top of my lungs to an excited crowd. I was Carol King, pounding out tunes on the piano, evoking powerful emotions through the lyrics. I was Joni Mitchell, strumming on my guitar, though I never took lessons for that, making powerful social and political statements. I still do it to this day, with my old favorites and some new ones: playing some kind of instrument for Cake or White Stripes, and vocalization; always vocalization.
However, from time to time, I would get swept up in another fantasy all together: Writing.
Around the same time as the Wonder Woman attraction, I wrote a story called The Princess and the Whale, no doubt a result of my fascination with fairy tales and the Brothers Grimm. I still remember the pink construction paper I pasted the story on, and the crude drawing of the Sperm whale I did?it being the only whale I knew by name. I don?t remember what the story was about. I think it was something about a whale and princess who somehow help each other out. A prince was involved, of course. The parchment, sadly, has probably been lost, unless my mother has it in one of the many boxes at her house.
When I was eight, my grandparents gave me a little book bound in fabric and leather. Dark, reddish brown leather binding on the spine and at the corners, and a fabric cover embroidered in Victorian shapes of pink, maroon, mustard yellow, and brown. It had pale pink pages with more swirling floral designs and dark yellow lines?or was it just the opposite? Regardless, it was a beautiful book. Absolutely beautiful. My interest and excitement were only heightened when I discovered that it was completely blank. A beautiful blank book, flawlessly bound. The only thing left to do was fill up the pages it. My very first novel: The fascination began. . . .
At eleven, I attempted my own Nancy Drew Mystery. Mine had more violence (it?s not really a mystery if there is no murder) and more romance between Nancy and Ned, or as romantic as an eleven year old girl can get?sappy but not sexual. I also did a short story, my first official attempt at the horror genre, entitled Attack of the Killer Pump Organ. It was about a haunted old pump organ that devoured anyone who played it, starting with their hands once they touched the keys and progressing from there. Spoooooooky. At the time, we (me, my little brother, and some kids from the neighborhood) thought it was hilarious.
Still, music occupied most of my time, and the dream of writing became exactly that: a dream, not to be confused with reality. I continued to write; I simply kept my writing to myself, not only my journals but my creative writing as well, only showing a story or two to my best friend Mary. It was just something I did for fun.
Unhappy in the School of Music at IU, I ditched music and transferred to Purdue University, following a loser?which often happens to young women when they think they are in love?and majored in the reliable field of accounting. I worked three years as a Public Accountant before I finally acknowledged that writing?creative writing?was the only thing I really wanted to do.
Shortly after my decision to write for a living, I found my Senior Portfolio from high school. Nothing in it contained any ideas about a musical career or anything resembling desires to be an accountant; it was all about writing. In one essay I even wrote:
I enjoy writing so much and I love the feeling of being able to create a work that is fulfilling emotionally and in other ways when it is a finished piece . . . I?ve even thought of studying English in college, and taking creative writing classes and possibly having something to do with it [writing] in the years to come.
Did I actually write that? Never mind that it?s terrible, I can?t believe I forgot writing that, or feeling that! Here I am, thinking that I?ve recently uncovered my dream of becoming a writer, yet the desire started long before now.
How would my life be if I had the occupation I dreamed about as a child? All I can think about that, now that I?m pursuing it, is that I?d be a lot farther ahead than I am now. I never realized how important the dream of writing was until the time to matter came: until I was an adult.
Posted by mary at February 7, 2004 6:13 PM