Once there was a 1. The 1 met a 2 and the 2 met a 3. Everyone thought they were weird people.
One day the 2 said, “This is not fair.” The 1 said to 2, “People, you are not being fair to us.” 2 said, “1 is right. We have to be what we are born to be.”
There was a meeting, all the people said sorry. And the numbers lived happily ever after.
The End.
When I was about six years old, my friend Matt gave a hand-me-down copy of Dr. Seuss’s My Book About Me, in which I wrote that story – my first-ever, I think – and declared that I wanted to be a writer.
I also declared that I wanted to be a few other things, including President, “Flower Venvor”, and Frogman.
I was an indecisive child.
The pattern of wanting to do lots and lots of different things all at the same time continued over the next two and a half decades or so, with my career occasionally veering off in fairly wild directions (directions that have been well-documented here), but one thing has always stayed the same: no matter what I was doing, I wanted to write.
Now, I believe that if you write, you are “a writer”; there are no qualifiers there. But as far back as I can remember, I’ve dreamed of what it would be like to not only “be a writer”, but to actually walk into a store and to see my book, my book that I’d written, sitting there on a shelf. Honestly, though: I didn’t think it was ever going to happen.
It is. I can’t believe it.
Ramshackle Glam: The New Mom’s Haphazard Guide To (Almost) Having It All is now available for pre-order on Amazon.
