When I was about 10, I wrote my first book. It was a Bic-pen, hand-drawn science text with pages reserved for readers to jot down their own observations. I begged my dad for a manila envelope (and another writing notebook for good measure) at a drugstore on Plaza Road. I copied the address for Harper Collins from the copyright page of one of my novels onto the front of the envelope. I don't know where I got the stamps, but I got them. I tucked my manuscript inside (my only copy, but what's a 10-year-old to do?) and sent it off into the ether, eager to finally call myself a published author. I'd waited ten years already, after all. It was time.
Harper Collins didn't bite (there's really no accounting for taste). But I'm still writing.
And I'm teaching: building my own journey by investing in the journey of middle school students. We analyze texts — and all the world's a text (hat tip to Derrida) — and then make our voices heard together.
And I'm baking: I make cake as an excuse to write stories on my food blog (and as an excuse to eat cake).
And I'm taking photos: stories in their own right.
In my life so far I've watched satellites, going faster around the earth than a plane could ever go. From horizon to horizon in seconds. I've heard the rush of air like many waters through the otherwise silent Florence Cathedral. I've gone Chicago steppin' with a giant mudcat (that one's a fun story). I've uprooted everything to drive from North Carolina to California with my husband, dog, and turtle to start a new life in San Diego. It's a risky venture, but it's worth it.