I always knew what I wanted to be when I grew up:
3 years old – GI Joe
4 years old – ballerina
5 years old – teacher in a one-room prairie schoolhouse, circa 1872.
I could totally see myself here.
6 years old – Laura Ingalls Wilder
7 years old – detective
8 years old – astronaut
9 years old – Louisa May Alcott
10 years old – international spy
11 years old – archeologist
12 years old – Judy Blume
13 years old – actress
14 years old – Academy-award winning actress
15 years old – playwright
16 years old – that really cute senior boy’s future wife
17 years old – living anywhere but with my parents
Okay, so I wandered around a lot. I also wondered what to do with my life. I dreamed about being a writer. I just didn’t know how to start.
So I went to college, earned two degrees in Communication Studies and Journalism. I edited articles. I got married and had two kids. I joined the PTA and learned to appreciate annelids.
I didn't realize having boys meant I'd spend my days admiring things like this.
One spring day I drove my fussy 18-month-old son through town. I was exhausted, desperate for him to nap. Train tracks stretched past the elementary school. I stared longingly at those rails. Where might I have ended up, I wondered, if I knew what I wanted to do?
We reached the railroad just as the crossing arms lowered. Warning bells clanged. Red lights flashed in time. The rhythmic rattle of the coal train soothed my son, and he dozed.
That was when a story began to gnaw at me. Two brothers. Ageless werewolves. A mysterious storm sewer that demanded to be explored. I pulled into the school parking lot, found a torn envelope on minivan floor, dug out a navy blue crayon from my purse, and wrote.
Years later I still wander. And wonder. Now I write it down.
