I’d like to preface this story with the fact that I am now twenty-eight years old.
To the age old question of what I want to be when I grow up, I’ve had the following answers: ballerina, actress, famous actress, Julliard grad who becomes a Tony Award-Winning Actress, and that’s it. Well, except for when I in elementary school, dashed off a story about aliens with matching uniforms. won a creative writing contest hosted by the town library, was given a desk handcrafted by Certainly Wood (the town’s handcrafted wood store), and had my face splashed across the front page of the newspaper. At that point I was evidently a “writer.”
My parents were proud. I had a new desk on which to write. We went out to dinner at The Ground Round (complete New England chain – does it still exist?). The librarians seemed to know me by name, which in of itself was better than any type of fame I’d previously imagined. For a while, this new profession didn’t seem so bad. The next year I wrote about magical gymnasts in fluorescent leotards and was relegated to third place. The prize was a bookshelf. Everyone seemed to find that so incredibly cute. Look at the little writer with her handcrafted wood desk on which to write and her handcrafted wood bookshelf on which to place her favorite books. If the newspaper reporter had asked the winners about their favorite books, I probably would’ve blurted out, “Any Babysitter’s Club book every written. Ever.”
I did not yet understand that impressions were important.
Guess I’ve blown them with you people. Oh well.