Isn't Talli almost X (insert your figure) years old? Shouldn't she be grown up by now? But the older that I get, the more I realize I may never be grown up.
Last Wednesday, I gave a writing workshop to a lovely group of students at King's College London. After the workshop was over, one of the students asked if I'd always known I wanted to be a writer.
Thoughts swirled though my mind as it hit me that I never knew I wanted to be a writer. I knew I liked to make up stuff, sure, but a writer? Was that even a job? How did someone get to be a writer, anyway?
As I grew older, I went through phases of wanting to be an Olympic gymnast (thank you, Nadia Comaneci and the Montréal Olympics), Little Orphan Annie (I could hang off a bridge with the best of them), the fastest runner in the world (Ben Johnson's to blame) . . . finally settling on a career in journalism. Then public relations. Then teaching. Then recruitment.
And then, when I'd done the 'adult' thing and accumulated lots of shoes, handbags, hair extensions (don't ask) and a closet full of clothes, it hit me that none of this was making me happy. So, I did the impractical, irrational thing, turning my back on it all. The child inside me -- that girl who loved to make up stuff -- has never been happier.
I still have bills to pay (boo to student loans); pay cheques to earn; boring responsibilities to fulfil. But as soon as I disappear back into my writing, I'm a kid once again.
What does the child in you want to be?