I can’t tell you what I do for a living.
Whenever someone asks me what I do, I begin with a long sigh, eyes cutting quickly to the right, signaling to that person that I just may be unemployed or setting up a bad lie. Usually, a person can say, “Oh, I’m an analyst at FedEx” or “I work for the State.” Me? I can’t answer that question without giving you a long, drawn-out thesis. That aggravates me, so to make it easier, I’ve just been saying, “I teach.”
Rarely do I say that I’m a writer, and I actually consider myself to be. To a few folks, I’m probably known as the girl who has a milion jobs and “writes articles and stuff.” I can’t knock them; they’re right. But I want to get back to storytelling.
A good story pulls you in, whether you can relate to it or not. It opens up your imagination. As your eyes run across the page, you are there with the character. There, in that place. Feeling those emotions.
Years ago, I would stay up all night writing short stories and poems in countless Mead spiral notebooks. I have stacks of them. Never showed them to anyone. Then I was a storyteller.
I’m actually going to start publishing things I write. Some of it’s new. Some, old. Some real and some fictional. All me though. Here we go.