I have always wanted to be a writer! Perhaps always is a bit of an exaggeration but it has been at the very least since grade four when I made my first journalistic attempt in a creative writing class. The topic of my article, if memory has not deserted or deceived me, was something like "Has Marrying Sean Penn Changed Madonna's Image?" Oh no now I am dating myself and wondering if I should have pursued a position at some celebrity tabloid! Regardless, from then on creative writing became more an undying and undeniable passion than a pursuit! I would leave a notebook and pen by my bed each night to jot down my otherwise allusive cerebral compositions which invaded my night thoughts. I was always afraid that I would forget each perfectly formed sentence or phrase of prose or verse of poetry if I did not immediately commit it to paper.
I wrote a play in grade four. I started my poetry phase in grade six or seven I believe. That phase has really never ended although now I rush to create a line of verse using magnetic poetry on a refrigerator which soon is lost or reinvented into a shape quite like a happy face or a rocket ship by the sticky fingers of my children once I've turned my back! Yes, in high school my dream was singular and translucent. I would write the next Canadian Classic. I was actually quite talented at that time aided I think by the romanticism of youth. My English teacher truly believed I would do or rather write something special and lamented my choice not to major in English in university. I believed my experiences in life would eventually weave their way into an intricate and unparallelled tale. This epic would naturally and effortlessly flow from me someday onto a blank page like water flowing from an open faucet. I am now 34, soon to be 35, and I think I am still waiting for this euphoric moment or have I given it up?
I thought of life experience as fonder for story but now feel life and all its experiences can instead stand in times' way. Time for self-reflection, expression, and the weaving of stories is fleeting! I'm sure in all likelihood I will never write the next great Canadian novel. Perhaps the closest I will come is writing my annual, long-winded Christmas epistle to family and friends. Maybe this blog is the answer to my unrequited dreams. Writing here each day may come to nothing memorable, it is possible very few will ever read this rambling in plain prose but it is a therapeutic salve for a dream not yet fulfilled and there is something to be said for that!