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I can’t remember a time when I wanted to be a writer.
I wanted to be Wonder Woman, or a veterinarian.
What happened? Well, strapless bra’s in sixth grade put to rest that first dream, chemistry and North Carolina the second. Physical Chemistry is totally beyond the realm of normal comprehension. I got married instead and moved with my husband to North Carolina where I became a traffic manager. Freight and Logistics management. Not a person decked out in an orange day glow vest and directing cars to the nearest parking space in an amusement park. (and yes, I have to explain that a lot.) It was in this occupation that I happened to overhear the butchered expression; “…he shouldn’t oughta did that.”
Once I recovered from the wince and ascertained the damage to my neck wasn’t permanent, one thing became immediately apparent: there was something wrong with me. At least that’s what my stunned coworker assumed when I directed his unblinking countenance to the words “shouldn’t, have, and done” with the dulled end of my pencil. But that’s another story for perhaps another time. Nonetheless, it was my turning point. From that point forward, I was incurably fascinated with the language I’d spoken for most of my life.
Never lacking for subject matter, I restricted my writings to opinions, and anecdotes on marriage and child rearing. A simple clicking of a few buttons and these were easily shared with friends and family scattered about the globe. Rarely do I receive a greeting from any of them that doesn’t end with a request for me to share “anything good that’s happened lately”.
Not so very long ago, a young couple paid a visit in my mind, and for weeks begged me to write their story. They wanted life. They craved the eternal immortality that exists only in the printed word. They wanted to simply… be. The only problem was they didn’t exist.
So I sat down, put pen to paper and wrote down their story.
And you know…I can’t remember ever wanting to do anything else.