I was writing like a maniac this morning, deadlines looming like impending doom--DOOM, I SAY!--on the horizon, and the knowledge that the horizon is never as far away as you think it is. Oh, sure. Some claim you can never reach the horizon. Puh. Leeze. Put a deadline out there and that b*itch will run you over in approximately -0.8 seconds. Yes, that's a negative. You didn't know time had negatives? Write. It'll prove all kinds of theories wrong.

Anyhoo, there I was, pounding the keyboard, eyes wild, spittle flying, tears falling as I randomly shouted, "Character arc!" or "Subplot!" or, "Anti-hero!" Then I went down the rabbit hole of, "There was something about beats. Not the headphones. Stories. Story beats. What was it? And wasn't there a cat? I know there was a cat. And a play. Wait! Was it a play about beating a cat with Beats? No. That isn't right..." Then it hit me and I shouted, "Beat the cat to fix the story!" right before the ASPCA showed up my door with the sheriff and...wait. I'm losing my grasp here. <shifty eyes> Let's move on with the knowledge my cats are fine. My mind, however, is on deadline.

So my inbox gives its little alarm ("Hey, psychotic author. Someone's trying to get your attention!") and, like any good  ADD--SQUIRREL!--sufferer, I raced off to open it. And found this:
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So I watched the video. Four times. Then a fifth. And that's when it changed my life. 

Sure, sure--I'm clearly on the ledge here and will likely topple off into the creative River of Doom, race over the Falls of Despair and end up in the deep Pool of Regret before washing up on the shores of Holy Crapola in the land of The Manuscript is Finally Done, but that doesn't detract from the message in this video. It was, and is, a message I needed (and will need) to hear. 

See, writing is my art. It is my contribution to the world and, in many ways, a glimpse into the deepest inner workings of my heart and mind and self (I sort of--suddenly--feel sorry for my readers). It is my attempt to give readers a place to retreat from the world, a different world to get lost in, really. A place they can go to when the horizon is bearing down and life looms too large. A place where rainy afternoons and sleepless nights can be spent in good company. A place they can go to be emotionally nurtured, emerging from the pages a little less frazzled than when they dropped in. That is always my goal when I write--to create an escape for people--for that is exactly what my favorite authors do for me.

But there are times when, as an author, I feel a little like I have to corral my writing mind and wrangle it into socially acceptable submission. It bothers me when I consider re-molding it to better fit outside expectations. It bothers me that I would dare consider it. It bothers me that, in the past, I've tried so hard to conform in order to fit the mold available instead of staying true to myself and casting my own mold, one specific to my shifting shapes and variable preferences and love of the eclectic. A mold that is likely re-cast-able. One that is never quite in line with what the Jones's are doing. Let's face it, my peeps. I prefer to set the trends than follow them, and I can't keep up with the Kardashians because, frankly, fabricated drama just ain't my game. Authentic conflict? I write it. They can't even live it. Movin' on before I go all TMZ all over the place.

Thank you, David Bowie, for the reminder that my writing is worth more than a rudimentary mold designed to serve the masses. My art is a reflection of my innermost workings, the parts of me that make me unique. No single mold exists that will hold, let alone honor, my many-faceted components, those things that make me me. I'm a color-outside-the-lines-if-I-feel-like-it woman, wife, friend, daughter, sister and writer. And I have no need to apologize for the fact that there's no mold out there sufficient to create borders I'm willing to live within any more than there is a pattern that I'll willingly color with a fixed number of colors. I'm a use-every-color-in-the-box girl, and for the first time in far too long, I realize I'm good with that. No apology forthcoming. 

Now, if you'll excuse me, I must get back to writing. I hear banjos in my mind's wilderness. From what I understand, that means paddle--or write--faster. TTFN, and that doesn't stand for Two Tacos for Nancy, folks. I'll be back!

If you follow me on Facebook, you know I also posted this video on my page this morning. So why post it here too? Why blog about it? <crickets...> Okay, truth? I can't stop watching it. Thinking about it. Letting it move through me like a pensive but pervasive wind, stirring up the husks of dehydrated dreams that lay scattered about. It's one of those things I can't get out of my head. "What do you want to be when you grow up?"

I am (grudgingly) admittedly middle-aged. Too often when I look at my life, I see where I've been, contemplate what I've done, reconsider choices I've made and how different choices might have changed the course I've taken. Yet I rarely look forward to what's coming. Even rarer is the occasion I actually think about what I'm going to do with my life. It often feels like, similar to what one of the gentlemen says, it's either happened or it hasn't.

I was thinking about this after watching the video (cough) several (cough) times in a row, and that was when it hit me. I spent more than a decade as a Human Resources Director. I had the corner office with the view. I worked ridiculous hours with moronic pride. I had an assistant and a secretary. I had the plaque on the door. And I had absolutely zero loyalty from the last company I worked for, the company I'd invested all of my time, efforts, life in. They didn't give one ripe shit about me when my health took a horrible, horribly unexpected turn. That company kicked me to the curb so fast I felt dirty, like a malignant liability. Years lost to a company I'd believed in. Championed. Cared about. And for what? I was destroyed. 

I was sadly unable to return to work in the traditional sense. I can't sit at a desk for any amount of time. I can't stand for any amount of time. More often than not, just balancing how I'll get through each day is a conundrum for me. I took almost two years to professionally mope. (What? I was good at it.) And I read everything I could get my hands on. Then, one day, my husband said, "Why don't you write? It used to make you happy." And so it began.

When I was 6, if you asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, the answer was, "I want to write big books." What I meant was long books--the kind adults read. I now know those are called mass market books, or single title books. I wanted to find my books in a bookstore. I wanted to write elaborate tales with any number of plot lines, though I didn't know what the word plot meant, unless you were referring to a garden. What stopped me from being what I wanted to be? Life. Practicality. And, above all, responsibility.

See, somewhere along the line, we've begun to believe that if we want to be a certain "thing," it can't be practical. Surely if I want to be a ballerina, it's impossible...right? Right? Who really grows up to be a ballerina? I couldn't have answered that for you twenty, ten or even five years ago. Now? I know the answer. Who grows up to be a ballerina? The child/girl/teen/woman who wants it so badly she refuses to give up on her passion when life tells her she needs to behave, by society's definition, "responsibly." She sheds that social stigma and give value instead to her dream. She pursues it. She works harder, longer, more passionately than the 50,000 other children/girls/teens/women who think they want it too. And she prevails. The moment someone pays her to be a ballerina, whether she's paid $50 or $5 MEELION dollars to dance, she's achieved her goal of being a ballerina.

I always wanted to be an author but I wasn't brave enough to do the thing certain to make me happy and equally as certain to make sure I lived with my parents after college. Had I been brave, I would have pursued writing. I would have shrugged off that leaden cloak of responsibility society laid over my shoulders and replaced it with a whimsical, lightweight scarf. One that fit me, not the masses. I'm not a "One Size Fits Most" kind of woman. I'm me, and I'm custom-fit, thanks. 

It took a medical catastrophe and a wise man to make me re-evaluate what my dreams were worth. Then it took some time to rehydrate those husks that had blown around, un-nurtured for so long in my heart and mind. Then? I wrote. And the funniest thing happened. My first book sold, and I became a bonafide author. Twenty years I wasted chasing society's expectations, financial standing and false pride. No more. Now I live each day on the expectation that what happens today, tomorrow, next month and next year are all my responsibility. What about all that stuff behind me? I couldn't tell you. I haven't looked back in so long because you know what? I'm not headed that way. 

So I'll ask you now and hope you'll answer:

What do you want to be--really, really be​--when you grow up?