Lesson 1: Write about the reason you have delayed writing your story.

But Here I Sit

Husband always tells people that his wife is a comedian.

A storyteller.
A writer.
Without fail, they turn to me, and in a loud, sassy twang exclaim, “Really! How perfectly charming that is.
And what is it…What exactly do you write?”
“Checks! Lots and lots of checks!” I squeal, figuring if I can’t inspire respect,
I sure as hell can arouse jealousy.
You see, I wasn’t meant to be here.
No, not in the physical sense, silly goose, in the metaphysical sense.
My career plans written first with a chubby, red crayon.
“donna is a RiTer,”
as a faded, 1st grade self portrait still clarifies.
Middle school years spent uninterested in David Cassidy, Bobby Sherman, and the rest of the lunch box idols. The Monkeys or Partridge Family were musically inclined, but dull when compared to the band of critters in my immediate family. Have I got a sit-com for you?!
A Catholic high school with primarily a Latin population produced a notebook of material just waiting to be deciphered and chronicled. Maybe book two?
Baby sitting jobs turned away, choosing rather to work in a sun-scorched car wash or dreary, discount store, knowing they would provide earthier caricatures of humanity.
Never experienced the “Oooh” factor for infants; and found them even less inviting as toddlers.
Children for me? Never!
My future was carefully composed and consisted of a New York flat, an iron staircase, abject poverty, a frayed cord hoisting a single light bulb, my creative juices, and solitude.
That is where I would be.
Simple?
No so much.
Because in a stocky, 6”, green-eyed, twist of fate, I met my brother’s college roommate. We became pen pals, buddies, companions, steadies, and thirty-five years ago… husband and wife!
We have struggled, lived, laughed, had sons, and inherited more sons;
all as the years scampered past.
A brief offer to volunteer in a Domestic Violence Shelter morphed into years of managing their Children’s Programs.
All kids, all day!
All remembered, yet unwritten!
Aging grandparents and parents interrupted my Journalism degree field trip and somehow, in a moment of menopausal mental illness,
I bought a small coffeehouse that came with a leaking,
antique espresso machine and a menu of flavorful characters!
“May I have a mocha, marijuana, vodka latte’, please? Can you make it a double?”
“Certainly,” I cajole, “Hot or cold? Whole or skim milk? Whipped cream?
Oh, and by the way, I’m not meant to be here. "
But here I sit........
Wondering if fate’s benevolent hand has muffled my primal dream, because my lack talent would make it a nightmare, or, if I have finally run out of excuses…..except the fear of failing….
Or is it 'accept' the fear of failing?