Among the myriad of dreams I have had about what I wanted to be when I grew up, the dream about being a writer resurfaces the most frequently. Others, such as my desire to be a famous opera star or the first woman president of the U.S.died once and for all when I realized how impossible they were. But writing, being a writer–that dream only fades a little when other concerns hold sway over my mind. It never completely disappears. Some secret part of me believes that I could actually do it.

The first time I thought I might like to become a writer was just after I had written and illustrated a story about a toad. My mom sewed the pages together to make them a “real” book. I was five or six at the time.

The next time I was bitten with the bug to write was in seventh grade. I wrote a poem and shared it with my wonderful English teacher, Mrs. Koch. She secretly submitted it to a contest and it won. I was thrilled. I thought I was a superstar. I thought I was more talented than any other seventh grader who had ever breathed. The following year, my poem lost. Everybody tried to console me by saying such things as “the only reason that other girl won was because of the gimmicky way she presented her poem.” It could have been true. It just as well might not have been. I held on to the notion that I was better than people realized. I knew words like “precarious” and “maudlin.”

During the same period of time, I discovered a wonderful series of books: Ann of Green Gables. I worshipped the heroine. I wanted to be just like her. I lamented the fact that I didn’t have red hair like hers–even though she hated it. I wanted to hate my hair like she did. I wanted to accidentally dye it green and have to have it all chopped off. I wanted to accidentally get my best friend drunk on fine sherry. I wanted adventures like hers. But most of all, I aspired to be a writer just like she did. It was at that point that I started keeping a journal. I never actually filled an entire journal. But I had lots of them. Lots and lots. I changed journals as frequently as I change blog designs. I guess I need the inspiration of a “clean slate,” so to speak.

The next time I experienced the reawakening of my writer’s bug was in college. On a rainy Saturday, I went to the Neptune Theatre and watched Henry and June. It was a shocking movie in many ways. I don’t know if I was as enthralled with the frank sexuality it presented as I was with its portrait of a woman writer who Lived–with a capital ‘L’–and wrote from the deepest part of her soul. I was fascinated with her relentless exploration of self and her involvement with a rich artistic community. Very similar to the way I wanted to ‘become’ Ann, I wanted to ‘become’ Anais Nin. I wanted to not be ashamed of my feminity. I wanted to enjoy my sexuality. I wanted to think interesting thoughts. I wanted to write interesting stories. And I wanted to share them with an interesting and talented group of people. Most of all, I didn’t want to turn into the dreary, dreamless being I seemed to be turning into. I was frightened of being dull and lonely. So I started writing. I wrote myself out of that desperation. I learned something of my strengths and weaknesses. Writing helped me grow up.

Do I still want to be a writer? Not in the way I did. I don’t picture myself as a novelist. I don’t need that picture anymore to sustain me through much needed therapeutic journaling. I have come to realize that I just enjoy the process of writing…the process of putting words to my thoughts and those words down on paper. Wonderfully elegant sentences will never flow from my pen, but a renewed sense of self, a more grounded understanding of what’s possible for me in the here and now…those things are enough to compel me to write.

Just about one year ago, Seattle was in utter chaos. Police sirens, angry jeers, steady chanting, the beat of drums, breaking glass, querelous cries and the occasional report of crowd quelling grenades… I’ll never forget the forbidding appearance of the national guard standing in ordered ranks down the city streets. I’ll never forget the siege mentality that overtook me…racing for the safety of a bus or an open door into a secure office tower. I’m so thankful that I live in a country where people have the freedom to express their point of view. I’m equally thankful that I live in an orderly and peaceful society…without the need for the military enforcement of laws…without the need for curfews and heightened security.

The old Stanton-Nelson household is finally quieting down. My parents
left early this morning, all bundled up for their drive over Snoqualmie
Pass and down into the chilly snow-covered landscape of Idaho and Western
Montana. My brother, Will, is still here, hanging out with Robert and
Zora in the TV room. It’s so nice to spend time with family, refreshing
your appreciation of their loving natures, good humor, and kindness.
It’s equally nice to spend some quiet time alone, reflecting on all
you’re blessed with. I don’t spend enough time doing that. It’s so easy
to focus on what’s wrong, what’s lacking in your life than on what’s
right

I’m blessed with a wonderful. supportive family, and great friends.
I have many strengths and talents. Remind me of that when I allow depression
to hold sway over my mind and soul.

I spent most of the afternoon working on a pair of patchwork stockings
to hang on our mantlepiece. I forgot how much fun that can be. I would
like to spend more time working on projects like that and a little less
playing on the computer. We’ll see how long my attachment to that plan
lasts