I've begun digging through some old journals and notebooks, rediscovering a period where I was doing some stream of consciousness writing and poetry. It has taken longer than 10 years, but I feel like I am pretty close to what I was dreaming about on this February day in 1993. Although, my black coffee- no cream & sugar has been replaced with gallons of Irish tea accompanied by cream & sugar, and a keyboard has replaced my pen and stacks of paper...
Where I want to be 10 years from now
February 18, 1993
I want to be a writer. I want to be a writer. I will be a writer. I will brandish my pen as if a sword - slashing down words with passion, slicing with pain, whistling with witticisms. I will be the heroine -dancing with glee - feeling my heart in my throat. Having passions - putting them on paper. I will sit in my book lined study, the scent of books in my nostrils - the crisp, clean paper stacked up high - pens and pencils there. Perhaps they will be scattered. I shall feel incredibly alive and connected. Some days I will be filled with doubts - feeling fuzzy and worthless. Then a turn in the road and inspiration hits, the wings of thought fluttering into my creative pool, splashing me back in the face. My coffee cup by my side. The smell wafting up to my nose - comfort, warmth, definitive black.
When someone asks what I do, I shall look them boldly in the eye and say with ease... I am a writer. Sometimes thoughts will lie clenched in my stomach, fears gnawing at my gut. Then expelled bursting upon paper. Perhaps I will have to leave my study, my sanctuary and move my body - allowing the rock which is fear to roll out of my toes, so that I can bend over, pick it up, throw it in the air and watch it twirl another way before catching it. Or, I will pick it up and hurl it as hard as I can out the window. Oh joy! To really feel at one with myself - to have a deep private moment and then tease it out and let it seduce another. My red passion, my white terror, coloring a canvas of my own creation. I shall be the painter, the sculptor, the actress, the musician, the writer - all of these in one. The giant smile full of fierce sparkling teeth that has lain deep within my belly, the small child that dances there, safely - will come to dance upon my desk in the sunbeams ...smiling her rapt smile and she will be me.