alright, there, I said it.....
I feel so much better.
You know how when you were a little girl, you would dream of being a princess or a queen or a cage dancer or Paul McCartney's wife or an actress or a model or a super hero or a Bond girl or Ken's girlfriend?
You remember that feeling...don't you?
I'll admit it, at one time or another, I wanted to be all of them....except maybe a superhero.....didn't like the outfits too much and I wasn't in to saving the world or rescuing cats in trees.
I wanted to be a writer.
Not just a writer.
A famous one.
A big time, famous writer.
For as long as I can remember.
Forever and ever.
But, I never really told anyone.
I mean....I never really said it out loud.
I might have said I want to be a journalist.
That sounded a little more acceptable.
The idea that I wanted to just write sounded kinda kooky.
She's a writer?
What the hell does she write about?
People might have guessed that I wanted to be a writer.
And, I'm pretty sure I have scads of cousins and friends who are still a little surprised that I'm not a writer.
I had suitcases filled with notebooks with handwritten stories.
And little papers scribbled with thoughts were stuffed into drawers and under the bed.
And, people always asked me to write stuff--like thank you notes and social studies reports.
I guess when I became the editor of my high school paper, it might have been more apparent that I liked to write. Sort of. Even though I never liked that kind of writing.
Even when I went off to college....I didn't sign up to be a writing major.
Saying I was a writing major was just.....ahhhh.....too personal.
Like running on campus naked.....with my wacko thoughts and those stories in my head hanging out for everyone to see.
What does a writing major do? Write?
No, I would major in Communications.
Then English and Communications.
Then just English.
But I wanted to write.
To be a writer.
A famous one.
But I was in love.
With a guy.
And I wanted to get married.
And do the white picket fence thing.
Two cars and two kids.
And a job.
After all, I needed to pay for that picket fence, the cars and the kids...and the shoes and the clothes.
It hasn't been a bad gig.
As a matter of fact--it's been a good gig.
Sure, it wasn't perfect 24/7/365/always.
It had it ups and downs. And backwards and forwards.
And, along the way....I did write.
In a journal.
Notes to teachers.
Letters to friends.
Other people's letters to people they wanted to complain to or compliment or bitch at.
So, yeah, I did write.
Then came my Lapband.
Then my blog.
Then came my 50th birthday.
And then the empty nest thing.
Then the restless thing.
Then came some ah-ha/WTF? moments.
Then, just in the nick of time--came the soul searching.
And the dreaming.
And the thinking.
Every dream was the same.
Every soul searching moment arrived at the same discovery.
Every thought drifted back to the same vision.
Yes, I've spent the past year thinking about and dreaming about and discovering that I really want to become a famous writer.
I haven't come too far, have I?
Or, maybe I just came full circle.
Or, maybe I'm just a late bloomer.
Or, maybe it took losing 100+ pounds, turning 50, sending my youngest child off to college, my boss leaving, my other boss leaving, the new boss leaving and his boss leaving too....
My year of thinking about really being a famous writer is almost over.
So, I am telling you.
Owning up to it.
Admitting to it.
I want to be a famous writer.
Okay, I'll settle for a working writer.
A writer who can still buy shoes.
I don't have to be a mega star.
Maybe like a rockstar of choice to a nitch group of really great people.
Or maybe like a well-kept secret to a legion of ardent and loyal followers.
A guilty pleasure for suburban moms, closet smokers, people on diets, fashionistas and shoe lovers.
The go-to-girl for wine-drenched nights and morning-afters, fashion advice and soup recipes.
The place to land. To feel good. To be inspired. To tell you that you aren't really that bad.
To let you know you are not alone when you're thinking those things.
To let you know you are not alone when you're doing those things.....
where you are welcome to have a cigarette, a glass of wine with a martini chaser and say fuck....
I don't have to be on the cover of Time.
Or even Vanity Fair.
I'm ready now.
To be a writer.
So, don't go anywhere.