It’s me, Carol, saying hello again. Which means I’m back, writing, for the second day in the row. With all the craziness of everything, I’m excited that I’m happening to keep this writing promise to myself.
I’ve been thinking a lot about how when I was a child, I wanted to be a writer. I was an avid reader. I read every Nancy Drew book I could get my hands on, which meant I did a lot of begging of my parents in Costco, holding Carolyn Keene written plastic wrapped yellow hard cover books. I loved Carolyn Keene books. I loved the books from Sweetwater High. I loved the Babysitter’s Club, and imagining being all of these characters and living their lives. So, whenever I was asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, I wrote, or said, “Writer.” The idea of being able to string words together in a way that could entertain others felt like a super power that I wanted desperately. A super power, that unlike flying with my arms as wings, I knew for a fact I could make reality.
I’ve been thinking a lot about the promises I have made throughout my life. I’ve promised my parents that I’d always work hard in school, that I’d get good grades. I promised myself that I’d never lose touch with art and creativity, that I would fight to protect art and creativity at any chance I got. When I was little, I wonder if I was making myself a promise with each time I wrote or said “Writer”. I wonder if I’ve disappointed the younger, wide-eyed, second grader who just wanted to write mysteries that other people would want to solve.
And I wonder if I could stop disappointing her today, tomorrow, and the day after, by writing. And continuing to write, even when things get said, when life gets busy, when inspiration doesn’t seem to “strike”.