I decided that I would continue to write as long as I lived, even if I never sold one thing, because that was what I wanted out of my life.
– George Bernau

Once upon a time I actually attended college in the hopes that after 4 years and some hard work I could walk away with a communications degree and simply walk out of there and into the role of a writer. It didn’t take me all that long to realize that college was the wrong path for me. Half way through my first semester and I was miserable. There were a lot of contributing factors and part of me will always wonder if I had waited a year or so before going to college I might have had better success, but it is what it is.

I realized by the end of my second semester that college just wasn’t for me. It may have helped me in gaining a career as a technical writer or a journalist – but I didn’t feel like that was the path I wanted to take (I drift back and forth now, but that tends to be the frame of mind I settle in at the end of each internal debate). I don’t mind writing manuals (I have done it now for two of the places I’ve worked for) nor do I mind writing articles (eh, okay.. I don’t like to write articles) – what I realized I didn’t want was to have to write for someone else. Writing is sacred to -me- and I want to write what -I- want to write, not what someone else tells me to.

Of course with that sentiment comes the realization that if I wished to ensure any form of income for myself, even freelancing, I was going to have to at least write with what someone else wants in mind. It is something I have not yet figured a balance out in – but I at least continue to write – and that’s really all that matters to me right now. I remember, back in high school, I had a creative writing teacher who still stands out in my memory as one of the best and most supportive mentors of my young life. She told us to never let our writing go, to continue to chase after the dream, even if it meant that we became starving artists – if that were to happen we could show up on her doorstep and she’d make sure we got a sandwich and a good critiquing of our work.

So here’s to the starving artist in me.

Mr. Dashes and I recently bought a house and moved in. It is an event that ranks fairly high up on the “big scary grown-up list” but was thankfully relatively easy process and not nearly as scary as one would think. During the interim we were living between our parents places and all our personal belongings became scattered between houses. Yesterday we made a trip to my father’s place in order to look for some books and DVDs that we were missing.

Diving into my father’s place is like foraging through a cave full of ancient discoveries and treasures. We often come out from an expedition with far more than we were originally going in for. Yesterday’s trip was no exception to this and we came out with a crate full of books and one special box full of the most precious memories I have.

My mother passed away when I was 11 years old. My aunt and uncle came over from England, arriving just after my mother had passed on and staying through the funeral. Even now it’s hard for me to put words to the sheer volume of grief I felt back then, to this day thinking about it puts an ache in the center of my chest that doesn’t easily subside. It was my under my aunt’s direction that my brother and I put together our Remember Boxes. It was a safe place to keep all the things that reminded us of her for years to come.

For years it has sat on a bookshelf in my father’s basement collecting dust. It once again caught my attention yesterday as my husband and I searched the bookshelves. I picked it up and added it to the pile of items to be brought home with us and when we got home it was deposited on the kitchen table and once again forgotten. We went about the rest of our evening and then crawled into bed and turned out the lights.

This morning I walked past the red shoebox on the table several times and eventually stopped to look at it. The box is a little worn from time and the weight it carries, a blue piece of paper glued to the lid that has been painted in childrens watercolor with the words “Remember Box” and a blue splotch I can only assume was meant to be a cloud, a yellow sun and a poorly formed red heart underneath.  I opened up the lid and peeked inside at the precious items within and that all too familiar ache returned. I replaced the lid and continued about my chores.

The box won’t let me forget it this time though and even now I sit at my desk with it next to me and wonder if I’m really ready to go back and revisit all the little trinkets inside. The two Siamese cat figurines, the paint worn  and whiskers missing that used to sit on my mother’s vanity in the bedroom, the handkerchief that had belonged to her as a child with an image of Rapunzel painted on it, the photocopies of her diary entries from when she was sick – entries I have as of yet never read.

I thought that this grief was all left behind me, but at the most surprising times it can creep up and hit me. It is easy for me to remember the good memories, the laughter, the birthday parties, the things that made me into the woman I am today, but when left alone with these items, reminders of the funeral, of the period of time when she was so sick, I’m left wondering if I want to remember those at all.

.. if you look really close, there’s a rip in the sky and you, can see the universe, spinning around like a pin in your hand ..

I wrote my first book when I was in Grade 2. It was a story about a family of pumpkins and I gave it to my Uncle for his birthday. If I had to define a single moment as the deciding factor for me being a writer – that project would be it. Taking that joy that writing gave me at such a young age and turning it into a potential career has been, well, more than aggrivating.

At times I have given up. I have gone entire years without writing a single word towards a poem, short story or novel. Then there are the times where I let go of my worries and immerse myself in writing. There is no deeper thrill than the pull of a story, the chatter of a favorite character, the knowledge that all of this is your creation.

.. stop and look at the sun, tell me what have you done today, that left you dreaming ..

This blog is a story in itself, following the path that my goals to become a writer take me. I foster no false hope that I’ll hit a best seller list, purely that someday and somehow I will have a novel of mine published. In the mean time feel free to join me on my journey and leave lots and lots of comments!

* Title & Song Lyrics: What You Want by Hayley Sales