Another blog prompt from sleep is for the weak: Tell me about a childhood passion that somehow got left behind as you moved into your adult life.
I was a writer. I was also a gymnast, ballet dancer, singer, and actress, but above all I was a writer. I wrote everything- poems, fiction, songs, and plays. I loved family gatherings because I could write a quick play, gather all of my cousins together, cast and direct them, and put on a “show” for the whole clan. I remember dressing up my five or six year-old cousin as Madonna and making her lip-sync to “Dress You Up In My Love” while a few others (including myself) acted as back-up singers and danced behind her. I made my mom sit through countless Barbie plays and I even wrote stories for my brothers’ matchbox cars.
Above all, I just wanted to write books.
They started out simple enough:
And gradually morphed into a little bit more (and I was fascinated with California from an early age):
And even “fancier”:
I loved putting a story together and playing connect-the-dots with the written word. I was a voracious reader and I believed that one day someone would get lost in something I wrote.
That day has yet to arrive. Maybe it won’t, just like hanging out with Michael Jackson (circa 1984) will never happen:
However, my mind refuses to abandon that dream, even if I must resort to self-publishing as I did many moons ago. Hopefully I will accomplish my goal before I die:
Yes, apparently I was a slightly morbid child.