Monday, February 13, 2012
The Origin of Me.
Maybe it began when I was a young girl living in a small English town and inventing stories to entertain my younger sister...nope. J.K. Rowling.
My story is far less exciting. After being forever warped by a babysitting episode when I was five in which my brother let me watch 'Carrie' while he made out with his girlfriend, I was hooked. When I turned eight, my parents decided to completely do away with our televisions for religious reasons. The Horror. But it forced me to read. And read. And read.
The love of a good story morphed into a life long affair with the written word. I devoured whatever I could find from Flowers in the Attic by V.C. Andrews to The Sacketts by Louis L'Amour. And anything/everything by Stephen King. I delighted in writing horrific short stories to scare my sister with. I may still have the first five chapters of a western I wrote when I was thirteen...in pencil.
My future was mapped out by the time I was in 5th grade. I would attend college, before becoming a foreign correspondent. Then later take Katie Couric's place on the Today Show. After a few years of that, I would settle down with some very handsome wealthy man (preferably a celebrity, at the time this may have been Tom Cruise. Don't judge me.) and have a few kids, all the while writing best-selling novels.
Instead I met my soul mate in a crappy little town on the far side of Arizona when I was still a teenager and my plans went all to hell. It's ok. Wingin' it hasn't been so bad. For a long time I gave up on dreams that seemed so far out of reach.
Then one day I had an epiphany. Time was passing and if I didn't want to end up an old lady in a rocking chair wishing I'd at least given my dreams a fair shot, then I better get my ass in gear.
Besides, if some Mormon housewife with three kids could pump out a bestseller...so could I.
Now I can't imagine ever giving it up. And that's my story.
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