Deep Thoughts

Do I want to be a writer when I grow up? I've thought at different times in my life that I do. In high school I had a wonderful teacher who believed I was talented and supported me in my writing. It didn't seem real as a goal then. I was too depressed and too angry to be serious about the future then. In my 20's I wrote again for a time and believed I could be serious about writing but life happened. In my 30's I actually attempted to be a writer, published a co-written article in an engineering journal, helped a friend write patents, had published prose, joined the Writer's Guild. I was inspired for a time. Late 30's, early 40's writing became a tool of my personal growth, not for outside consumption. Deep and painful inner searching was lightened as thoughts and dreams and memories flowed from pen to paper. Writing became my sanctuary, my expression of inner musings. I think that I feel stories coming back to me now. Stories about little girls walking barefoot on dirt roads, stories about other worlds and fantasies. I don't feel a book because I've always been a short story kind of gal. A snap shot in time appeals to me now. Something that can be richly detailed but described in a few satisfying pages with an end in sight. I want to write about kaleidoscope colors and bejeweled thought patterns alight with feeling. I see myself sitting on a deck with my laptop writing the day away into sunset. For now sprawling across a softly plushy maroon recliner will have to do. Writing is all, no matter the surroundings.