I was the child who tested my mother's patience by refusing to draw on either side of a paper with visible erasure marks, the ghosts of crooked lines and ovals that should have been circles.
I was the child who entreated my mother to transform my coloring books into color-by-number after I'd finished replicating the front and back cover illustrations.
I was the student who would re-write my notes half-way through class, when I finally deduced the organization of my teacher's lesson. Or because my handwriting wasn't neat.
And I am the writer who feels compelled to un-publish my past posts and begin with a fresh page every time that I change my mind about what this blog could/should/will be, so that when I finally know for sure, it will look as though I really knew all along.
But I'm resisting the urge, especially since my first two posts, "How to Wear a Sari" and "A lot of different Annes", (which, I confess, I have rewritten twice already) still represent the core of what I am writing for, and here's why:
I was the child who vehemently rejected the idea of ever leaving Roswell, Georgia or of living any farther than thirty minutes from my family. And now I live in Boston, Massachusetts.
I was the college student who refused anyone who said I would become a teacher because my mother is one and because I was an English major (so, naturally, what else would I do?). And I am now halfway through my fifth year of teaching high school.
As a teenager, I never imagined that I would marry outside of my culture or my faith, when in fact, I have done just that.
And as a writer, I only imagined myself sharing my writing in some distant day dreams, when I emerge out of nowhere with some book that everyone loves to read and I have a minute or two of fame before slipping back into anonymity so that I don't have to share the next thing, until and unless I decide that I have written the next out-of-nowhere book that everyone will love to read.
(But remember, I was the child who relished color-by number, and the student with pages of half-started Biology notes in semi-scribbly handwriting.)
So, you see, I've done so many things that I said I wouldn't do, or hadn't imagined for myself, and I've learned that life is better when you don't precisely plan the next ten years of your life (or the next ten blog posts).
As a child, I also enjoyed the occasional choose-your-own-adventure book. (Although I would be lying if I said I didn't peek ahead now and again, just in case.)
So I won't erase what I've already done. I'll keep moving forward, posting about what I've seen, done, and read lately, and focusing a bit more on writing. And finally making good on my months of promises to invite others into this process. Welcome.