When I was but a wee lass, and I realized that the whole professional ballerina thing wasn’t exactly going to pan outâ€”what with my lack of dancer’s thighs and well, coordination, I became determined that my spirit path was going to lead me to the television. It made sense, really, as I was raised by my television set. I considered several options, including Mouseketeer and the new Bob Barker, but I had absolutely no musical talent and I really didn’t think I was up for kissing that many old people while really I would just want to be playing Plinko.
And then it hit me. Well, Walter Cronkite hit me. Anchorman. Or, well, anchorwoman, as the case was. I had dreams of Good Morning America. And The Today Show. And I totally knew I could have replaced Kathie Lee in a heartbeat. I mean, who couldn’t have, really? And that was that. I would practice giving interviews in front my my mirror and I imagined how amazing it would be to break earth shattering. groundbreaking news to the American People.
But then I wrote about it. And wrote about it. And wrote about it. And my “what do you want to be when you grow up” paper took a very different turn. It turned into three-quarters of a really great novel. And I realized that I would never be Ron Burgundy…but I could write about him.
And that’s when I knew. I wanted to read, I wanted to write. I wanted to surround myself with pens and paper and WORDS all day long. Newspaper reporter, magazine columnist, novelist. Yes. YES! And one almostnovel became twenty almostnovels. My preteen self suffered from what I’d like to call the Jodi Picoult syndrome – can’t write an ending to save her life-itis. That, mixed with a little bit of too much excitement about a new idea that I had to immediately abandon the old idea to get started on what was obviously going to be the next bestseller. I would change the world, I would. A New York Times bestseller before I was in high school.
Hey, if nothing else, I dreamed big.
I went and got myself a fancy degree that says I amÂ qualifiedÂ to work in publishing. I learned about marketing and editing and I even learned to use Photoshop, back when I didn’t even know what Photoshop was.
And I am not that preteen girl anymore, but I still have her dreams. I am *gulp* 33 and a bestseller still hasn’t happened.
(I do, in case you are wondering, have some wonderful levelled readers for first graders published. They probably get sent home with your children sometimes. Look for Home Run! and Hungry Plants and Emergency! Paramedics To the Rescue. They are really riveting, I promise you.)
And the twenty almostnovels have become about 134 almostnovels. My scribbled-on notebooks and funky pens have turned to Word files and fingers, but still, it’s still the same. The next great idea comes to me in the shower or on the subway or in the car or whilst drinking margaritas on patios with friends. I go home and I write and write and write. And then I write outlines and I get thisclose and then, nothing. I lose it. The end. Or I come across the next great idea and start the cycle all over again.
But guess what I have been doing while my family has been away?
(I mean, other than seeing movies and having sleepovers and shopping and drinking and going out to dinner and doing photoshoots and editing…)
And there might be an anchorwoman in one them.
And they both have endings.