Writing is my second career, but I think it may have always been my calling. I remember declaring that I was going to write about a female Sherlock Holmes at about age eight. I didn't do it. Instead I began internalizing reasons not to write. I resisted, sometimes fought it, for I was living my life (both personally and professionally) to please other people more than myself. My first career was working with young children and families, but even within that field I was always most drawn to reading, writing and publishing, for children, and I specialized in children's and family literacy. Children's literature is still a passion of mine.
A few years back, during what I call my midlife shakedown, I decided I wasn't going to live my life for others anymore, that I needed to start being more authentic. (In my defense I'd like to say that my shakedown wasn't just about turning 40, but also marked by brain surgery for me, the sudden death of my husband, his mom, and mine, and a move to a new town, but you'll have to come back to read about those things).
So suddenly, I was writing. At first in the closet. At first way in the back of the closet. The transition has not been an easy one for me. I struggle as much with the craft as with the identity. The lack of a steady income seems to invite the lack of acceptance from others. I have made a fair amount of progress in the few years that I've been calling myself a writer, but I know I have some distance to cover still. This blog will be about me finding my way. Like an industrious little ant on a great big beautiful peony ~ I'm not quite sure what I'm doing or why I'm doing it. I just know that I must do it, that I need to do it, and maybe, just maybe, the big fat flower needs me to do it.
And it smells good. It seems this is where I'm supposed to be.