Once upon a time I wanted to be a writer.
Thanks goes out to my sixth grade teacher Mr. B. for that one. Standing up in front of a class of thirty twelve-year-olds reading a short story that I wrote about traveling into space was enough to make me want to run for the little girls room. But I did it, because Mr. B. told me I had to. And everyone loved it.
That was a long time ago, before I'd even decided what to do with my life. At one point I remember wanting to be a pediatrician and then quickly changing my mind to wanting to be a beautician. I've thought about becoming a mechanic, a computer technician, and even a truck driver (which is crazy since I have yet to learn how to parallel park). I think I could have even pulled off being a lumberjack/cheerleader if I had set my mind to it. You're laughing right now, aren't you?
I love writing, not because I want to be famous, not because I want to be wealthy, and definitely not because I want to rub it in the popular girls' faces at our next class reunion (okay, I lied. Maybe that last one). I love being able to be whatever I want in my stories. I can be the timid child yearning for that one chance to shine, the sexy temptress that gets all the guys, or even the ex-marine turned cowboy (and let's not forget a blood thirsty vampire).
In reality, I guess it's my own personal silver screen. And tonight, I'm Juliet.