When I was six, I realized that being a writer was a “real” job. I would like to say I have been pursuing that end goal ever since, but I think we can all agree that, more often than not, life gets in the way of achieving “real” goals. Life, inevitably, cuts short the time we spend dreaming of our futures, and building fantastical lives with those jobs we would give anything to have. I wanted to be a novelist, and instead, I worked as a secretary for six years. I wanted to be a novelist, and instead, I got married. I wanted to a novelist, and instead, I became a mother. I wanted to be a novelist, but instead, I became a licensed teacher. I wanted to be a novelist, but instead, somewhere along the way, I left my dream by a wayside. I decided that I did not value it, myself, or my talent enough to keep after it, keep pounding, keep pushing.
I cannot quite explain what changed.
(Well, I can, but you would have to know my wife, and know what she’s capable of, and understand that being present in my life is, in and of itself, a cosmic shift for me.)
Suffice it to say, one morning I woke up, and I began to write again; not that I had not been doing it along and along. Writing is cathartic, writing is breathing, writing is changing EVERYTHING around me, melding it, burning it, and churning out something better. This time, however, I began to write with purpose. I wrote with her in mind, her support, and her love and her compassion. I wrote because she believed in me. The Right Kind of Woman is my testament to her.
Which brings me to the point of this post.
My wife, my soul, now has her own, corporeal, dedication page.