I was absolutely sure about what I wanted to be when I grew up. I wanted to be a writer. Then a psychologist. Then an actor. Then a director. Then a stage manager. Then a first assistant director in film. Then a personal assistant. Then a screenwriter. But the most important thing about all of this was, among these definitive and very possible career paths, there lived within me a million other lives I wanted to live. The simple farm girl who takes care of her father’s farm after he passes away, and nobody thinks she can do it. The city-girl-to-farm transplant who can’t cut it in the sticks until a heart-wrenching experience shows her what real work, love, and family actually means. A summer that teaches her about loyalty, love, and accomplishment. The wickedly-smart frou-frou California earth-loving, tree-hugging, hippie-type girl who hikes and climbs trees, composts, doesn’t mind getting dirty, rides her bike everywhere, knows everything about all the environmental wars in the world, and does mushrooms and LSD because: mind expansion.
The white-picket fence lady with a husband and a few children, the Kansas family, the Florida surfer, the Vermont snowboarding chick, the upper class Manhattanite who was Nanny’d since birth, sent to boarding school in Europe, has six houses all around the world, and has a business relationship with the parents whom she never sees.
Even the sweet white girl who grew up on the wrong side of the tracks. The girl who is well-mannered, intelligent, studious, but vastly talented and quick, and understands everything she needs to know to survive on the streets and own her life – the kind of girl who does parcour and is a cheerleader, but also valedictorian. The girl who would be picked on until those assholes realized who it was they were really messing with –
I digress. The point I’m making with more than a few words here, is that I realized at some point that the main theme among all those career paths was Storytelling, and living every day with thousands of voices in my head, trying desperately to be heard, the only way I could – and can – find peace is by telling their stories. Each one of those voices belongs to a story, aching to be given life, and they’re rooted deep within my soul, something I only recently discovered. They won’t rest until they’re heard – meaning I won’t rest until I listen.
So, this is where their stories will be heard. This is the page onto which I’ll pour their lifeblood.
This will be raw, I warn you. I may edit or revise a few times, but consider this first draft work. You’ll be uncovering the secrets of these lives along with me. Typos, thoughts non-sequitur, lies and whole-hearted truths included. We’re in for a ride, here, hopefully, and we’re in it together!
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