On a recent post, Serizy commented that she wanted two things:

1. "I want you to be selfish on more occasions: I just want to [have] you [write] about you, in particular your childhood."

2. "I wish you could be discovered!"

So, Serizy, way to nail me for my codependent habit of blogging about other people, and my lack of focus on me. This post is for you...

I can't remember a time before I was able to read. There must have been a time, when letters were strange undecipherable squiggles on the page, and I sat on my mother's lap listening to her read to me, but I don't remember it. And for as long as I have been able to read, I have wanted to write.

The day before I started kindergarten, I followed my mother anxiously around the house, spelling aloud for her every word I knew. We lived in an apartment, with gold shag carpet, and walls on either side of the living room that my father had accented by in breathtakingly bold shade of orange paint. Sandwiched between those two orange walls were a set of Ethan Allen bookcases, one with a desk built in.

I reached the limits of my knowledge as I paced back and forth in front of those bookcases saying, "Cat is C-A-T and I know dog, D-O-G, and what else do I know?" I was frustrated that I couldn't spell every word I knew, simply because I couldn't think of every word I knew. I wanted a list of them, like my own personal dictionary, a list of every word I knew and could spell. My mother was not helpful at all; she was irritatingly serene about the matter. She seemed perfectly satisfied with "cat" and "dog" and not at all upset that I wasn't able to work my way through the full breadth of my English language knowledge, aloud, right that instant.

I knew what was coming the next day though: kindergarten, real school, big kid school. And I had heard from the big kids how things were done at school. At school you took tests, teachers measured your knowledge and doled out praise or criticism (usually criticism, according to the big kids). There were papers marked up in red pen, and the potential for failure. And there were days and days of those same teachers stuffing you full to bursting with new knowledge. And I was going to be ready for all of it.

So, there I was, the first day, sitting eagerly in kindergarten, nervous because I just knew there must be some word I had forgotten, and the teacher held up a red square and asked what color it was. Um, red. But surely that's not all Mrs. Fitzgerald, my ancient (probably 45-year-old) kindergarten teacher, wanted to know? Ooo, ooo, ooo, I can spell "red!" Can we write a story about red? Come on fellow five-year-olds, let's learn to write haikus! But no, actually, red was the answer, the only answer, and we really were just going to learn colors, and sing songs and (oh, please no!) participate in gym class and take naps (naps?!) and listen to Mrs. Fitzgerald read. Oh, kindergarten was so disappointing.

So, I read outside of school, a lot, and I wrote outside of school, a lot. I'd forget to eat if my mom didn't remind me, and I'd stay up late saying "just one more chapter" and then "one more" and then "one more." I'd write stories in crayon and then pencil and then pen. My books were my friends, my companions, my treasures. I once took on the ambitious project of devising a cataloging system for my books, labeling them and making an index card for each one: my own card catalog. I'd alphabetize my books and drape plastic wrap over them to keep the dust off. I learned not to break the spines of paperbacks by supporting them with my fingers and bowing the cover out in gentle arcs. (Ellen, I'm calling you out. You cracked the spine of Fung Yu-lan's A History of Chinese Philosophy, Volume II back in college. Don't think I've forgotten! That poor book is sitting in my lap right now with that sad little crease still marring the spine two thirds of the way in.)

In school, I'd soar through my own personal curriculum: from Little House on the Prairie books and Nancy Drew mysteries to Agatha Christie and J.R.R. Tolkien, books squeezed on my lap under the desk. Then, once we got into classes that required taking notes, I realized that school was really a much better place for writing. So, books were abandoned in favor of poems about my history teacher's paisley tie or the shadows outside the window and letters upon letters upon letters (love letters to people I was dating and letters to friends who had moved away and letters to classmates sitting right next to me) and whole reams of paper devoted to my love for my crush du jour. Everyone who knew me as a child knew one thing: Mary wants to be a writer.

I never did, before this blog, write the things I wanted to write and share them with more than just Mark and a few others. There are a lot of reasons for that, but that's another blog post. The result has been that I never have, before now, been that writer I wanted to be... Which brings me to Serizy's second wish...

I just learned today that The San Diego Reader, an alternative weekly paper, will be printing revamped versions of two of my most popular blog posts: A New Kind of Trust and My Son Doesn't Eat and paying me real live actual money, like a real live writer, to do it. It is, quite literally, a dream come true: my words, written simply for love and pleasure, in print, and paid for. I get to check "become a published writer" off of my list of things to do before I die. This counts. And if these two pieces are as far as it goes, I'll be satisfied. I'm enjoying this moment as much as if I were J.K. Rowling complete with best sellers, movies and a whole line of spinoff products, maybe more.

And this is all thanks to the love of my blogging life, The Junky's Wife, who pointed the San Diego Reader folks in my direction in the first place. She and I are going to celebrate by taking off our panties and riding in a limo with Paris Hilton. Come on, JW, let's ride!