I’m an Author — Sort of?

Are you pretending to be a writer?

Like most girls in the 1960s, I dreamed of playing house with a plastic Ken-type husband gallivanting around in a pink convertible packed with smiling children. Even so, I bored easily with the game, preferring an alternative fantasy — to be an author.

The daydream took place in a cabin in the woods where I labored day and night at a primitive desk holding a stack of tattered gilded edge Mark Twain books, a flask, a fat cigar, and an Underwood portable typewriter. Other props included a №2 pencil as a pseudo quill fountain pen, and although I pictured a bushy beard, I settled for messy hair.

Truth is, I didn’t actually write much in those days. It was more about the mysterious writer facade. The part about putting words on paper came later, and sadly, I admit to being easily discouraged. I take full responsibility for that, recognizing that many writers pressed through rising above all obstacles, honing their craft from an early age. Conversely, I stomped off stage with my flask and cigar upon hearing the first “boo.”

Maybe there’s a future story brewing on the false starts, failures, brokenness and repeated murders of my lifelong desire to write, but this is not it. No, this is about today, tomorrow, and the next. All the days to come, promising a “do-over.” No excuses or justifications…