There is so much that I don't remember, so many missing days. My parents tell me these stories about things I said or did and maybe that's the way it happened, but great chunks of my childhood are a hazy mystery to me. There is one thing I remember, one moment that never disappeared. I remember writing my first book. It had a white cover with thin plaid lines (red, green, and blue) and it was little more than a few sentences about flowers. It wasn't more than 7 pages long, complete with illustrations, but I remember the weight of it in my hand, the sound the binding made when it opened, and most importantly how it felt to have created something.
I have known for a long time now that I am supposed to be a writer. I won't be so cheesy as to call it destiny, but let's just say I've always had a strong inclination to put pen to paper and no matter what else is going on in my life, whether I am stateside or abroad, working or playing, there is usually a notebook in my purse and a pen behind my ear. I like to write everything: random thoughts, poems, song lyrics, essays, angry diatribes, novels, you name it, I've written it.
So why am I not a full time writer? Well at first it was because when I was 9 years old my mentor told me that in order to be a good writer I needed to have something to write about. Growing up in Wisconsin, arguable one of the more boring places to be me in, I didn't think I would ever have too much to say if I didn't escape. So off I went in search of adventures, and I found them on multiple continents, in bars I shouldn't have been in, on buses I wasn't quite sure were going where I thought they would, in grocery stores, in classrooms.
Everywhere I've been has been a story and I've been writing all along, but something happened during this journey. I stopped believing that I could be an actual full time writer. The only sensible way to do that would be becoming a journalist or something, but while I did write some articles, that wasn't really my thing. But the novelist thing? All the novelists and poets I knew were also professors and the writing was the side gig. So I did what I knew how to do, I worked hard doing other things and traveled and launched myself into all sorts of ridiculous situations in search of fun things to write about...and from time to time I published an essay or a poem. When I lived in Japan I even had a bi-monthly column. But mostly I have just been amassing a stack of full notebooks.
Finally two years ago, my mom mentioned (for the millionth time) that I should maybe take some of my poetry and put it together in a book. Christmas was near, so I thought, okay, sure, why not. And thus God, Hair, Love, and America was born. And there was that feeling again. I held the book in my hand and thought...I want to do this again and again and again.
But that was two years ago and a lot has happened between now and then. Once more I got sidetracked, but now I think I might actually be ready to stop making excuses, to stop being practical, and embrace the idea that I can do this thing I love to do and actually have it be enough.
To that end I am ditching my day job effective October 31 and will be exploding with new projects. Stay Tuned!
I have known for a long time now that I am supposed to be a writer. I won't be so cheesy as to call it destiny, but let's just say I've always had a strong inclination to put pen to paper and no matter what else is going on in my life, whether I am stateside or abroad, working or playing, there is usually a notebook in my purse and a pen behind my ear. I like to write everything: random thoughts, poems, song lyrics, essays, angry diatribes, novels, you name it, I've written it.
So why am I not a full time writer? Well at first it was because when I was 9 years old my mentor told me that in order to be a good writer I needed to have something to write about. Growing up in Wisconsin, arguable one of the more boring places to be me in, I didn't think I would ever have too much to say if I didn't escape. So off I went in search of adventures, and I found them on multiple continents, in bars I shouldn't have been in, on buses I wasn't quite sure were going where I thought they would, in grocery stores, in classrooms.
Everywhere I've been has been a story and I've been writing all along, but something happened during this journey. I stopped believing that I could be an actual full time writer. The only sensible way to do that would be becoming a journalist or something, but while I did write some articles, that wasn't really my thing. But the novelist thing? All the novelists and poets I knew were also professors and the writing was the side gig. So I did what I knew how to do, I worked hard doing other things and traveled and launched myself into all sorts of ridiculous situations in search of fun things to write about...and from time to time I published an essay or a poem. When I lived in Japan I even had a bi-monthly column. But mostly I have just been amassing a stack of full notebooks.
Finally two years ago, my mom mentioned (for the millionth time) that I should maybe take some of my poetry and put it together in a book. Christmas was near, so I thought, okay, sure, why not. And thus God, Hair, Love, and America was born. And there was that feeling again. I held the book in my hand and thought...I want to do this again and again and again.
But that was two years ago and a lot has happened between now and then. Once more I got sidetracked, but now I think I might actually be ready to stop making excuses, to stop being practical, and embrace the idea that I can do this thing I love to do and actually have it be enough.
To that end I am ditching my day job effective October 31 and will be exploding with new projects. Stay Tuned!
