I touched on this briefly in my post about "The War of Art." I was born and raised in a housing project until my parents moved us to the suburbs when I was 15. What I was taught though is "It isn't where you live, it's how you live" and so I dreamed big. Bigger than my circumstances, or anywhere or anything that I came from. I wanted to be EVERYTHING, but most of all I wanted to write. I loved writing because as a kid I didn't have too many friends - the one I did really have is still my friend to this day - but I got lost in books, and books made me want to write. I loved pulling out my mom's old books. I'll never forget the first time I read "Tell Me How Long The Train's Been Gone," or picking up my first Steinbeck novel. I lived between pages and I so yearned to be like Zora Neale Hurston or Sylvia Plath. I also lived for all other forms of art. Music had been a huge part of my life, from my dad reciting rap lyrics to my younger sister Karolyn and I to my grandfather teaching me about Marvin Gaye and the Jackson 5 and showing me chords on the Organ. I fed on those creative outlets. I drew, I painted, I was a dancer. Now that I think about it I've been a busy body my entire life. If I had my way I was going to hit it big and write the books that one day some other little girl from nothing and nowhere could read for inspiration. When I was no older than seven or eight, my dad told me things like that didn't happen for people "like us." As I said when I reviewed "War of Art," I don't lay up at night crying about that. I kept writing, but I did eventually come to a place where I figured I should be more practical and do what makes real money, not chase my pipe dream
My dream job today is no different if I really think about it. When I started conceptualizing ABD, I think that was one of the things that scared me most. That thought in the back of my mind that things like this don't happen for people "like us." But I'm pushing against it (clearly.) I still feel a rush that I don't get any other time from writing. The only difference is that now instead of making things up, my reality seems almost stranger and more dramatic than fiction at times. If I could do anything it would be THIS. Sharing my truth with the world, teaching or helping other women whether it be by letting them laugh at my shenanigans or learn from my mistakes. If sharing my truth was my job, that would be the highest of highs. I figure I'll keep doing it, money or not. It's a true labor of love.