When I was five I wrote a poem, and was smitten with the rhythme that made it’s way onto an index card. It went, “Cotton candy is so yummy, especially when it’s in my tummy, sticky, sweet and bad for you….I like it anyway, and that’s true.” So many years ago I wanted to be poet. As I got older I realized I liked to be in the limelight too. At ten I’d sit on the fence in the neighborhood with playmates in attendance and do commercials and pretend that pieces of bark were little edible calcium chews. I sang jingles incessantly…I still find myself saying the phrase “ancient Chinese secret Huh?” oh the beloved jingles, and the real reason I tune in to the Superbowl. It makes sense that I am obsessed with Mad Men, and relate to Peggy as I wanted to be her. In college I actually wrote commercials-ones that were on cable T.V. and then translated to radio, and they were good…but somewhere off the beaten path, I got distracted with my love, my passion for ditties and the feeling of accomplishment and bubbling success of producing clever creative copy waned. Perhaps you’ve felt that uncomfortable feeling of success before? It was very much like the feeling when I found my true love at 22, and was petrified and called off the engagement because it was too soon for that kind of love. I just couldn’t accept I actually knew what I wanted to be, or didn’t trust I knew. True also, my parents were very hands off and perhaps thought life would guide and encourage me and I would hear the right message at the right time. I settled for managing a health food store, and kicked butt at sales for sure. But always this little girl sitting on the fence demanding attention with her cleverness spoke to me. After having children, the writer in me loomed large perhaps for therapeutic reasons. If you survive molding these children into the people they should be, it mirrors back to you your own childhood and what you should be too. I wanted to return back to who I had started out to be. As you get older hindsight is so twenty-twenty and intuition that was, still is. You start to set sights on the fast track to your own happiness because as you age you realize the only opinion that truly counts is your own. The years are limited and impressing others with your greatness diminishes quickly. Maturing is not just going to bed earlier and drinking less- it is also quieting yourself and listening to your thoughts; knowing when the universe speaks. I am sick often-so perhaps the universe has told me to slow down. I do suffer daily pain and know I have seriously nearly died twice in my life- so living on borrowed time makes me cut to the chase and for damn sure, not waste any of the time I have. I don’t know that I could hold any more than part-time job. But I do know, that when the creative fire burns within my brain at the wee awkward hours of the day, I drop everything and harness it. The ideas translate to words-they are the precious words, the words of the artist that always is and always will be, what I am supposed to be. A writer.