Monday, October 17, 2011
It doesn't really make sense that I grew up wanting to be a writer. I didn't have a traumatic childhood requiring years of therapy and thousands of dollars in recovery. I wasn't abused, poor or fat. I never went to bed hungry or without dessert for that matter. I didn't grow up in a broken home, in fact, my parents didn't file for divorce until around the same time I did (a two-fer special at legal aid that month). I was a pretty, petite, blue-eyed, dish-water blonde growing up in the rich part of town, known as Lake O. My grandparents lived on the lake with a boat. Each new school year meant new dresses, new shoes, new lunch boxes, new backpacks and sometimes we even got a new car, every 2 years or so, I think it was a rule. I had a pink room with a pink canopy bed, a ruffle bed skirt, and matching curtains. We had family game night, movie night, pizza night, and vacations to Disneyland every five years. Now to grab your attention, this is where I should unveil some dark family secret that would invoke empathy or pity and thereby justify the mediocre life I've created. The truth, there wasn't any. I really had the ideal childhood.