No Ordinary Apologue
I was born bald and had blue eyes. By the time I left the hospital my eyes had turned brown but my hair took another good two years to grow in. In that timeframe, I was the infant then toddler version of my aging dad. My mother, with all good intentions, taped bows to my head with hope that barrettes might someday be an option and dressed me in pink, sparkles, and lace to ensure recognition of my gender. When my hair did finally appear, it was unruly. No tape or metal clips could reign in what turned out to be adequate representation for the two fashion nightmare decades ahead and a spirit that refused to test the water before running off the boathouse roof to cannonball into the spring-fed lake below. I had adventurous hair. It was a twin flame to a shoulder-shrugged motto of, “Sure. Why not?”
I was the youngest of anywhere between three and five siblings and nine and fourteen cousins. Raised in a family that expanded and thinned out like so many of us un-airbrushed women on one failed fad diet or another, I looked for ways to garner more attention while simultaneously being left alone.
Like all great dichotomists, the wayward, unrestrained haired, brown-eyed gal was also a rule follower. On days that I actually went to school, I was very good. Once I figured out that I actually liked academia, the University, once administers of my academic probation, became admirers of my zest for learning yet forced me to leave because they felt that five and a half years of undergrad was enough.
I showed them. I went to graduate school.
With a Bachelor’s degree in fine arts, a Master’s degree in behavioral science, and too many years wishing I could make my living doing something else, I decided it was high time to write that first book. Now I’m hooked. Manuscripts occupy tablets and tables, poetry is scratched out on napkins and sticky notes, and blogs are becoming my new out loud.
It’s literary chaos over here. Words are everywhere just like my hair used to be.
I was the youngest of anywhere between three and five siblings and nine and fourteen cousins. Raised in a family that expanded and thinned out like so many of us un-airbrushed women on one failed fad diet or another, I looked for ways to garner more attention while simultaneously being left alone.
Like all great dichotomists, the wayward, unrestrained haired, brown-eyed gal was also a rule follower. On days that I actually went to school, I was very good. Once I figured out that I actually liked academia, the University, once administers of my academic probation, became admirers of my zest for learning yet forced me to leave because they felt that five and a half years of undergrad was enough.
I showed them. I went to graduate school.
With a Bachelor’s degree in fine arts, a Master’s degree in behavioral science, and too many years wishing I could make my living doing something else, I decided it was high time to write that first book. Now I’m hooked. Manuscripts occupy tablets and tables, poetry is scratched out on napkins and sticky notes, and blogs are becoming my new out loud.
It’s literary chaos over here. Words are everywhere just like my hair used to be.
Circa 1972. no wind necessary.
