We’ve all heard it before. You can’t predict your life. Things happen. What you have designed for your life is not what God has designed for your life.
Blah.
Blah.
BLAH.
When I was a child, I lived in Michigan and planned to live in California and become a famous actress. Or a teacher. And I’d write about my dreams.
When I was a teenager, we moved to California and I planned to work at Disneyland. Or marry John Stamos. And I’d write about my dreams.
When I was in my 20’s, I went to college and planned to become an award-winning news journalist. And I’d write about my dreams.
When I was in my 30’s, I was a single mom trying to make ends meet. I planned to marry rich and spend the day being a carefree housewife. Or live in New York. And I’d write about my dreams.
Now I’m in my 40’s.
I thought by now I’d be married. I thought by now I’d be published. I thought by now my name would be known. I thought by now I’d be fairly debt free, fairly financially stable, fairly living where the grass is greener.
Life.
I still live in California.
I’m still a single mom.
I still believe in God.
And I still write. About my dreams. About my memories. And everything in between.
I write.
All the time.
“Life is what happens when you make other plans…”
I always tell people, I was born to write. I have ink instead of blood. I keep my fingernails clipped short to make it easier to type. I always carry a notebook and pen wherever I go. I have my own brand of shorthand, and I know how to write in the dark.
I can be inspired to write a sonnet by looking in a landfill of trash.
When I go to a movie, it has to be a really good one to keep me from being distracted with thoughts of “I could write that better” or “this scene should have been written this way”.
I have yet to make a living with my writing. I don’t have any national awards on my resume yet. People aren’t sending me fan mail. Yet.
But this I know:
I’m not settling for a change of plans.
I was born to write.
And I am really good at what I do.
I’m just waiting for the rest of the world to realize it.
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
