Thursday, September 27, 2012


I no longer dream about young ironworkers. It is no longer in my father’s house, however large and impressive, where I dream of living. I am not wearing flannel pajama bottoms or eating cereal. I am full grown and fully clothed. I am in a log cabin in the woods with fiery leaves and slats of the autumn sun streaking through the windows. Or I am in a modern flat overlooking the Eiffel Tower. Or I am in a cramped and miniscule studio with one good view in the middle of a bustling city. But the common thread, the recurring image, is a computer screen, or a laptop, or a vintage typewriter, or an empty journal, and ink pen or pencil or quill. I do not know where I am going to eventually plant my wandering feet. I no longer feel the need to cast my dream with a strong, tall, attractive man. I entertain supporting roles and extras, but the life that I picture for myself is no longer dominated by the presence (and more often than not, absence) of a male lead. I do not need him. I want my own home. I am seeking a life that allows me to continue to dream, and put those dreams down on paper. I am looking for a community and culture that inspires the kinds of stories I lived growing up, moving from place to place, and being made aware of the diversity and energy in each person I meet and city I visit. The strings of my soul, the products of my writing, are ready to wrap around a city, a people, and a set of memories. I am ready to become part of the world that I live in, and my writing reflect the beauty of the spaces and people I see every day. I want my words to be distinctive and true like the striking reality of what I see and experience. My writing will be like our childhood game of stringing a tree into a house, marrying the twine into the essence of the tree’s roots so that it is as much a part of its character as the earth that grounds it.

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