For as long as I can remember, a large part of my identify has been defined by writing. My first memory of churning out a relatively impressive combination of words was in Mrs. Duerr’s third-grade class, where we were assigned a project that required a short, one-page story (with an accompanying illustration), wherein we were to imagine ourselves as passengers on the Mayflower. My resulting piece, scrawled carefully in pencil on clean, lined notebook paper, won a blue ribbon at the county fair (ah, the Mayberry-ish benefits of a small-town childhood). I was presented with a cashier’s check for a WHOLE DOLLAR, which my dad promptly framed and hung in my bedroom – after handing over the cash, of course.
In high school and college, I bought hardcover journals with ribbon bookmarks, and wrote intently in tiny letters. I wrote about friends, boys; I wrote horrible, Jewel-inspired poetry, and a particularly teenage-esque entry titled, “Annoying Things Parents Do.” (Much to my chagrin, the adult me now disagrees with about 99.9% of it.) I filled pages upon pages with heartbreaking dialogue of hatred against my own body – a body that I would kill for now; a body that I desperately miss as I tumble, headlong, towards middle age.
And then, though I don’t remember exactly when, it dried up like so many old flowers. I married the boy of my dreams, had a son, owned two lovely homes. I started a graduate program; I planted a vegetable garden. I dreamed of going to Europe for my 40th birthday. But I didn’t write. Somehow, writing only seemed fitting back when I was an eager 18 year-old – when the world seemed like one endless Oriental rug at your feet, rife with the color and designs of possibility.
A Life, Untitled. 