It has been over a month since I've updated this blog and in that time, school has started, Brian and I celebrated our 11th wedding anniversary, I have cleaned up more dog poop than I ever thought possible, I've wrangled with the kids about homework and have somehow managed to come down with another round of pneumonia...at least, I'm hoping it's pneumonia and not swine flu...
After nearly two weeks or recurring fever, persistent cough, aches, pains and chills, a nose that can't make up its mind whether to run profusely or to stay so plugged up I feel like my head is stuffed with cotton, my husband has decided that I am going to see our doctor tomorrow...
I am neither a good nurse nor a good patient...
I have also been grappling with the idea of what I want to do when I grow up...which may seem odd to some of you, since I am, by my own admission, past the 40-mark...and yet, I still wonder from time to time if I've made the right choices...
When I was 10 years old, I started a story about a soldier in World War I. I graphically described the muddy trench and the itchy wool uniform that the soldier wore, which was an interesting choice, because at the age of 10, I had absolutely no clue what I was talking about (technically, I still don't, never having been a soldier in WWI). I showed the story to my visiting grandmother, who told me that I should be a writer.
In high school english classes, I had teachers who told me that I had a good voice, that I told stories beautifully and that I should consider being a writer.
In university drama classes, I had a professor who insisted that I and my classmates keep journals...in one entry (I still have the journal from that time), I ranted about not being cast in a play. I was very upset at the time and demanded (albeit only of the journal) to know if writing my own plays would be the only way I would ever get cast in something (it wasn't). The note I got back from the prof? "You should be a writer."
I ignored all of the advice and got married, had four kids and found that the life I had chosen for myself was pretty good and made me very happy...the only thing I ever wrote was a couple of stories for my kids and emails to friends and family, and maybe a few thank you notes and Christmas cards along the way...
So last week, with all four kids settled back into a routine at school, I decided to take some time and figure out what I was meant to do with my life/talents. I sat down at the computer, typed "what career should I have" into the Google search bar and found page after page of online questionnaires all designed to give me insight into my personality...questions to help me figure out if I should be going back to school...maybe I should be a doctor? A lawyer? Teacher? What, oh what, is my true calling?
Three tests later, the answer was the same from all three...
You should be a writer.
Sigh...
You know, the novel might be done by now if I'd listened to Gram in the first place...
