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February 22, 2004

Those Corporate Pigs

I?d Rather be Writing

Writing is my out. I?ve always considered it my out. It was what I did when I needed to relax, exercise my imagination, and forget about the real world for a while. But it is more than that.

Nothing else excites me. When I sit down to work on my creative writing?at my desk, or on the couch, or at the kitchen table, holding my notebook and pen, balancing my laptop, or typing away on my ergonomically correct keyboard?nothing else gives me the same rush of excitement. Of course, nothing else makes me look over what I?ve written the next day and groan, ?It?s not beautiful?it all sucks!? either, but it?s worth it all the same. Shouldn?t a person?s job be exciting to them?

Instead I?m bound by the laws of American culture. I bend to the capitalistic notions that invest even the air we breathe. Part of it is about money. Let?s face it, writing for a living doesn?t always pay the bills, buy the latest and greatest gadgets of technology, or pay for a new car. There are those who get lucky, and there are the rest of us, who wish and hope and pray for it. The other part is about status. Tell someone you finish drywall for a living and they automatically assume you?re either a high school drop out or barely made it, stuck in a job like that because it was your highest potential. But a doctor, a lawyer, an engineer?just about any of the white collar professions?the sky?s the limit! Education equals intelligence and potential, not always the case, and a suit and title equal a respectable paycheck, again not always the case, which in turn equals integrity and worth?do I need to say it? Not always the case. How blind are these congregations that prefer to see and believe in the bottom line! Life is being wasted and passing them by and they don?t even realize it.

The congregations I?m referring to are corporations. Those soulless institutions that control our culture and spread propaganda to make us believe it isn?t a real job or career if it isn?t for one of them. Those corporate pigs, they look you as though they own a piece of you; however, it isn?t true. They steal that piece which you graciously let them borrow, or rent, and then they call it life.

?Work with us and we?ll make all your dreams comes true!?

But how?

?We?ll provide you with opportunities for advancement, challenges, and responsibilities, plus a comprehensive benefit package, retirement plan, and money?don?t forget the money! There?s a lot of money to be made in this business.?

They forget to mention they?ll be outsourcing my job overseas in a year or two.

More importantly, none of it matters to me or excites me. I am not motivated by the usual opportunities for advancement, challenges, and responsibilities of a ?real? job. I?ve certainly never been excited by the opportunities for advancement, challenges, and responsibilities of a ?real? job. Writing in itself is a challenge; making sure I do it everyday is a responsibility. Trying to improve my skills, define my voice, and perfect my craft, those are both challenges and responsibilities. Writing is also damn exciting for me.

If I have to give in to those corporate pigs and support the filth their selling?sure, I only work part time, but still?I?ll sacrifice my life right now. If I had kids, I?m sure I would feel differently, but I don?t, so the sky?s the limit.

If I chucked it all now, money would be tight, but hey, there are ways to save money.

I have plenty of clothes, all in good condition. I?ve already gone a year without shopping, and two years without buying new jeans, I bet I can get a few more years wear out of them; and there is always Christmas. . . .

I think we can take care of the basic expenses, utilities and all that. The cable and cell phones would have to go, but I would still live, no problem. My darling husband might be able to live with these arrangements, I?m sure he would consider strangling me at least once during the day, but he might be willing to put up with it. A predefined standard of living, especially when you?ve already lived it, can be hard to let go of; it took me four years.

Food? I?ve heard the human body can go forty days without food as long as there is plenty of water, and Steve and I are planning a massive garden this year. Peas, corn, broccoli, asparagus (though it won?t be ready for another year?damn it!), summer squash, zucchini, brussel sprouts, green beans, cucumbers, carrots, lettuce, peppers, tomatoes, chives, watermelon, cantaloupe, and shitloads of herbs. I?ve never been a vegetarian, or considered becoming one, but hey, meat?s expensive. We can even make our own bread. Give me some pasta and I?ll be set, at least until the winter. Maybe even through the winter, if I figure out how to can.

Shelter? Ha! If worse comes to worse, we can sell the house and I move in with my mother. She might not like it, but she?d still take me in. She?s got Internet, too, so I won?t need to worry about that. I could probably get a job at Barnes & Noble or something as hassle-free as that (I?d be surrounded by books!), to make enough money to cover my car payment. Food would be taken care of as well. I say I because if we actually lost the house because I chucked it all, Steve would be moving to his own apartment. . . .

I could do it. I could get away from the ?real? jobs that the world, or at least America, has to offer and concentrate exclusively on my writing. It might speed of the process of getting published. I would have more time to research markets and put together and send submissions. It would definitely give me more time to be excited, not just about writing, but also working on the challenges and responsibilities most important to me.

Alas, I?ll suck it up and continue for just a little while longer, if only to protect my darling husband and compromise for his consideration. After all, it can be pretty unsettling to lose your whole way of life for someone else?s desire. I?ll work on my writing as much as I can and as hard as I can, give only the time and energy I feel I can give to the rest, and wish and hope and pray I?ll start making a living as a writer.

Oh, look at me. I?ve rambled on long enough! Someone?s going to think I have issues.

Posted by mary at 1:43 AM | Comments (1)

February 18, 2004

A Promising Occurrence

I sent my latest short story to almost thirty publications, picking from a list of smaller literary magazines that offer little to no remuneration, but allegedly a better shot for a writer with no publication credits. I must admit, I threw in several of the bigger publications, just in case. You never know if you?ll get lucky, and in this business, I think luck might have more to do with it than talent (which is subject to personal digression), though both come second to perseverance.

Over the past three months, I?ve received about fifteen rejections for my submission, and most of them from the long-shot publications. I always enjoy receiving a rejection, and I always know what it is before I open my self-addressed, stamped envelope. It makes me feel, even though I?ve been rejected, that someone at these publications is actually reading my work. I?ve submitted to publications that have never responded to me, which I think is unethical and just plain rude; they even ignore my follow-up letters and presumably pocket the postage on my SASEs! So I write these off as a scam.

A few weeks ago, I got a rejection from a publication I?ve submitted to before, but this rejection was different from all the form letters or post-cards I usually receive. It actually had handwritten comments included at the bottom of the form post-card. This had never happened to me before, and while my husband looked slightly apprehensive at my jubilation (I ran around the house screaming, ?Yes! Yes! Yes!?), he was proud of me, too. Here are the comments:

?I enjoyed reading your story. You write great dialogue! Not quite plot-driven enough for Zoetrope?Best of luck to you!?

I am not embellishing these comments one bit. The underlining, exclamation points, and em dash are all original, as included in the handwritten comments. There was no signature, so I don?t know if the editor-in-chief made the comments herself, but it doesn?t really matter. I?m also not concerned about being ?plot-driven? enough, though I?ll definitely take that into consideration if decide to try that publication again; I?m a character-driven writer. Those comments gave me that little bit of encouragement, that shot of confidence, every writer needs. If I ever figure out how to post pictures on the web, I?ll scan this glorious rejection, for all the world to see.

I?m not the type to paste rejections on my walls, as a reminder to myself that yes, I am trying. Instead, I?ve framed my rejection with comments and keep it on my desk as a constant reminder to me that I am on the right path. For even though the story wasn?t right for that particular publication, there?s still hundreds more to chose from that might be willing, and happy, to call my story home.

Posted by mary at 11:51 AM

February 17, 2004

Pictures

If you're interesting in checking me out (who wouldn't be?) click on these links to see pictures from my brother Dave!'s website. Please keep in mind that I'm not very photogenic. Other members of my family aren't either....

http://www.gulbransen.net/photos/family/pages/mary-wedding.htm

http://www.gulbransen.net/photos/wedding/pages/37.Mary-Steve.htm

http://www.gulbransen.net/photos/family/pages/matt-goofy.htm

http://www.gulbransen.net/photos/wedding/pages/14.Dave-Parents.htm

http://www.gulbransen.net/photos/wedding/pages/22.Married.htm

Posted by mary at 11:46 PM | Comments (1)

My Life as a Crack Whore

For those interested, here is the first chapter of my recently completed novel, My Life as a Crack Whore. If you'd like to see more, too bad! I may reconsider, but for today, I think one chapter is enough....

Chapter One ? Jennifer: Just Another Day

?Jennifer, what is you doin???

?Shut up, Christine, an? close the door.?

Does she want the whole place to hear her? I didn?t come in here so everybody?d know what I?s doin?; I come in here to be alone.

?Whatchou got? Is that one a them joints you rolled for Mama??

?Keep your voice down!? She knows better ?en to git me in trouble. ?An? yes, it is.?

?How?d you git it away from her??

?Aw, I done it before. She don?t ever notice. You know how she always has me roll five joints? Well, I jus? roll six and put one in my shoe.?

?That?s sick.?

?No it ain?t. It?s better ?en puttin? it in my pocket.?

Last time I done that, it got all squished up an? I couldn?t smoke it. Joints ain?t as firm as cigarettes; they break up real easy. I think it?s that thin paper you gotta roll ?em with, an? they don?t got no filter. But if I stick it in my shoe, right under where my foot curves up on the bottom, it stays nice like it?s s?posed to. Plus I can feel it there, so I don?t forgit about it.

?What?re you gonna do with it??

?I?m gonna smoke it, Christine.?

?What for??

I swear, she don?t understand nothin?. She?s only three years younger ?en me, but you?d think she was Joey?s age or somethin?.

?So I can git high, why else you smoke a joint??

?What?re you gonna smoke it with? Mama don?t let you have no lighter or nothin?.?

?I swiped one a her lighters from her purse.? Don?t she know I think ahead? I ain?t stupid.

?You ever been high before??

?I don?t know . . . I think so.? It?s kinda hard to tell. ?Prob?ly not, though. I jus? git a little dizzy, you know? But I don?t git all funny like Mama an? Daddy do, or Marcus or Angela or none a them do. But I heard this lady tellin? Angela once she smoked it nine times ?fore she finally got high. I only smoked it twice.?

?So this is your third time??

?No, Christine, this?ll be twice, if you ever quit buggin? me. Last time I put the joint in my pocket an? forgot about it, an? it got all broke up. I couldn?t smoke it. I think Mama washed it away when she did laundry.?

I know Christine an? I gotta share this room, but I still think I oughtta be able to have it to myself some a the time, an? not have her around. Usually we git along good, but havin? her around when I?m tryin? to smoke some pot jus? makes me feel bad. If she?s gonna sit on her bed an? watch me like that?I?d rather she jus? turn around or something. No, I?d rather she?d jus? leave. This won?t take me long, anyways.

?That stuff ain?t good fer you, you know. . . .?

?Yeah, I know, Christine, you tol? me all about it.? I wish she?d quit talkin? to me when I?s tryin? to take a drag. It?s hard to hold it in like you?s s?posed to when someone?s talkin? to you.

?It messes with your brain, an? can cause brain damage. Look at Marcus. See?I tol? you! You sound like you?s gonna choke to death.?

?That?s jus? cause I ain?t used to it.? I?ll be fine in a minute. ?An? Marcus don?t jus? smoke pot. He drinks an? does other shit.?

I seen ?im do it, too. I ain?t gonna git no brain damage from smokin? a little weed once in a while.

?It also ain?t good fer your lungs, like smokin? cigarettes.?

?How d?you know??

?Cause, I seen Eric clean out that pipe. You have, too. You know that black stuff he always pokes outta there? Yer stupid if you think that don?t git in your lungs, jus? like tar from cigarettes. ?Member in Miss. Armstrong?s class, that movie they made us watch??

?Yeah, I remember.? I remember Miss. Armstrong an? that movie they showed us ?bout smokin?. That was two years ago, though, when I?s in the first grade; I?da thought they?d have a different movie by now.

?Then you seen them black lungs they took outta those people that died. An? that doll they had smokin?, an? how its plastic belly got all yellow, then brown, then black . . .?

?I git it, Christine??

?You ever gonna quit coughin???

?Yes, I?ll be fine in a minute! An? I don?t think my lungs is gonna turn black from only smokin? it twice.?

Jeez, I wish she?s jus? leave me alone. I ain?t doin? nothin? wrong, good fer you or not. They?s lot?s a things that ain?t good fer you, like eating too much cookie dough. Me an? Christine did that once, when we?s over at Lisa?s. She had one a them rolls where you jus? cut the cookie off an? bake ?em. We ate damn near the whole thing, and me an? Christine?s stomach hurt the rest a the day.

?That stuff stinks, too. How you gonna keep Mama from noticin? the smell??

?I got the window open.?

?But the air conditionin?s on.?

?So?? I swear, she worries ?bout the dumbest things. ?It don?t work right, anyways. An? Mama don?t come in here much; it?s our room.?

?I bet she?ll come in here if she sees you got the window open??

?Shut up, Christine, she?s watchin? TV. The only way she?d notice I had the window open was if she went around the back of the trailer anyways, an? she ain?t gonna go outside.? Mama don?t go outside much, least not when it?s hot out like it is now.

?Is that all you gonna smoke??

?Four hits is enough, Christine.?

Last time, I made myself smoke the whole thing, my head hurt real bad for a while an? my throat hurt for ?bout two days after. There ain?t no point in smokin? the whole thing in one sittin?, anyways. It don?t git you high, an? I wanna make sure I got plenty left if it?s gonna take me nine times to do it right.

?I?ll save the rest for later.?

?What if Mama finds it??

?She ain?t gonna find it. You even seen her in here?? She never come in here before, ?less she comin? to git us for something or givin? us our laundry. She ain?t like Lisa?s mama; she don?t look through our stuff. ??Less you?re gonna tell on me. You gonna tell on me, Christine??

I wouldn?t be surprised if she told on me. She?s always makin? a fuss ?bout what doin? stuff that?s bad fer you. But I don?t think she got anybody to tell. She don?t like Daddy much?that?s why she calls him Eric. An? she don?t git along with Mama much better. But she might tell some a them people at school. I wouldn?t put it past her. She?s always suckin? up to grownups at school. She thinks they know better what?s good fer her then her own family.

?No, I ain?t gonna tell on you. You shouldn?t be doin? it, though.?

?Christine, when you gonna learn?? I swear, I knew more at her age ?en she does. ?This is jus? what people do. Jus? cause them grownups at school tell you it ain?t good fer you don?t mean nothin?. I bet they do it, too. All adults do. They?s prob?ly jus? tellin? us it?s bad cause they think we?s too young, like when they say watchin? too much TV is bad fer you.?

?Maybe . . . but I bet Miss. Armstrong don?t do it. An? I still don?t think you should be doin? it. It?s different ?en watchin? too much TV.?

She is stubborn. When she gits a idea in her head she won?t let go of it fer nothin?, don?t matter what you tell her. She?ll find out, though. When she?s a little older, she?ll see that adults jus? tell you it?s bad cause they don?t want kids doin? nothin? they?s doin?. An? when we?s all grownup and gots kids a our own, we?ll prob?ly tell ?em the same thing. I can understand it, though. Weed?s expensive, ?specially if you gotta share it with someone else.

?You better put that away. I think I hear somebody comin?.?

I bet it?s jus? Bobby. He?s prob?ly bored, since Mama?s watchin? TV. He can?t play no video games.

?Whathchou girls doin? in here??

Damn, that was close! I didn?t think Mama?d come down here.

?Jennifer! What the hell you got that window open for? Don?t you know the fuckin? air conditionin?s runnin???

?I?s cold . . .?

?Then git your ass outside, it?s plenty hot out there. Go on, shut that damn window right now! You?re lettin? all the cold air out. You?re lucky yer Daddy ain?t here, he?d beat yer ass.?

He would not. Mama?s jus? sayin? that to scare me. He don?t touch none a us, ?cept Joey, but Joey us?ally deserves it. I hope she don?t smell nothin?. Then he prob?ly would beat my ass, an? she would, too. I ain?t s?posed to be takin? weed from them, an? I definitely ain?t s?posed to be smokin? it.

?You two git ready to go.?

?Where we goin??? Good, Christine ain?t gonna tell on me.

?I?m talkin? you all over to Angie?s. I?m tried a lookin? at you kids. Runnin? around, bein? loud . . . you all ?bout drivin? me crazy.?

?But me an? Jennifer?s been in here??

?I don?t care where you been, Christine, I?m takin? you to Angela?s to play for a while. She said Lisa?s been bored, so you all can go over there an? be bored together.?

?When d?you talk to Angela?? We ain?t got no phone.

?Jus? a few minutes ago, right after I caught Joey messin? with the stove. I called her from your Grandma?s.?

?We gonna be spendin? the night??

?I don?t know, Christine. You might, so pack somethin? jus? in case. Jennifer, you pack somethin? fer Bobby an? Joey. I want you girls outside an? ready to go in ten minutes.?

?How we gonna git there?? Mama don?t drive. We gotta car, but Mama don?t never drive it. I don?t even think she got a license.

?Angie?s gonna come git you. She?s got some shit she needs from me, an? said she could take you fer a while this afternoon. She?s on her way right now. So hurry yer ass up, I don?t wanna keep her fuckin? waitin? when she gits here.?

?I?m hurryin?.? Jeez, she don?t gotta be mean about it. It?s gonna take Angela longer to git here ?en it will for us to git ready anyways.

?I hope we don?t gotta spend the night.?

?Oh, Christine, it ain?t gonna be that bad.? I don?t know what she?s got again?st Angela. She gits on my nerves sometimes, but she ain?t too bad. ?You like Lisa, don?t you??

?No. She acts like a baby.?

I guess that?s true. Lisa?s a spoilt little brat. But she don?t act anymore like a baby ?en Christine does.

?An? Angie gits mean. Remember last time we was over there? She yelled at us fer playin? with Lisa?s toys.?

?That?s cause Joey pulled the head off a one a Lisa?s Barbies.?

That was pretty funny, too. Lisa didn?t think so, an? went cryin? to her Mama, like always. Angela was pretty upset. I don?t know what the big deal was; them Barbie heads jus? snap back on. It waddn?t like Joey broke nothin? that couldn?t be fixed.

?It won?t be that bad, I promise. I?ll be there. Jus? stick with me the whole time, an? you?ll be fine. Plus, Angie?s always got some good stuff to eat.?

?If Lisa?ll let us have any . . .?

?Oh, now you?s jus? poutin?. I thought you said Lisa acted like a baby? Here you are, actin? the same way.?

?No I?m not!?

I knew that?s git her riled.

?Listen, don?t worry about it. I?ll take care a everything, an? if anyone does something to git in trouble for, I?ll take the blame, ok?? Well, she does look a little better. ?Now come on, let?s git ready to go, ?fore Mama comes back in here an? starts bitchin? at us again.?

Posted by mary at 10:33 PM

February 11, 2004

Happy Happy Birthday

Happy Birthday to Me! Today is my birthday, 25 years to be exact, and I'm thankful to be healthy and wise; hopefully, the weathly part will soon follow.

For those of you who know me, you may be thinking, "25? She's not 25!"

The only answer I can give to that is, YES I AM!

25 is a good place to be, and I intend to stay that way for a while....

Posted by mary at 9:11 AM

February 10, 2004

Exercise in Dialogue I

Performance Under Duress

?So it didn?t go well.?
?Are you kidding me? How am I supposed to know how it went? I couldn?t concentrate on anything. I shoved her around a bit, you know, to get her scared, and I think it worked, too, only she didn?t start spilling, she just shut up and watched me. So then I started in on the whole, ?You sure are a prutty woman,? routine. Never met a woman who didn?t start bawling the minute they thought you were gonna rape them?until tonight.?
?What? Did she fight back or something??
?Fuck no, don?t you think I?d have been able to handle something like that? I was going over the whole routine, you know, get real close, smell her and tell her how great she smells?incidentally, she did smell great??
?Get on with it.?
??she didn?t do much but sit there, all stiff like she had before, and then I did the thing where you grab the girl?s neck, you know, an? hold them by their hair??
?I know, I know.?
?So I licked her face, you know, like a dog would, and then pulled her head back some more and bit her neck?and do you know what she did??
?Kicked you in the balls??
?Damn it, Andrew, can?t you pay attention to what I?m telling you? Can?t you figure out what she did??
?No, so why don?t you tell me already??
?She moaned. Not only that, but her neck relaxed, her whole body relaxed. If I hadn?t been holding up her, she would have slid to the floor. She closed her eyes, the whole bit.?
?So? What do you want me to do about it??
?Jesus Christ, how do you threaten a woman with rape when she wants it? I can?t threaten to rape a woman who wants to get laid.?
?You?re acting like a dumbass. If she wants it, then give it to her. Maybe she?ll be grateful, and tell you what we want to know.?
?Give it to her??
?Just fuck her.?
?God damn, you don?t understand a fucking thing.?
?Look, if you?re not up to it, then I can go in there and see how she responds to me.?
?Fuck you, why wouldn?t I be up to it? It just takes a little bit of the fun out of the interrogation process, don?t you think??
?I think it?s the other way around. Have you ever even raped a woman before??
?Well, no, I never needed to, but??
?Look, you?re not up to it, I can tell. I?ve seen her; if she wants to get laid, I don?t mind at all. I think I can handle it for you.?
?Fuck you, I?ll do it.?
?The get the fuck in there and do it.?
?I?m just saying that it?s not going the way we planned, that?s all.?
?I could have fucked her twenty times by now. . . .?
?All right, fuck you. I?ll be back out in a little while. And no listening at the door.?

Posted by mary at 5:10 PM

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 6:13 PM