Do you ever wish time would stop so you could sort your wits out? I do all the time lately. I’m not the person I imagined myself to be when I was a fourteen year old girl living in Brooklyn. I used to imagine myself working for Haper Collins, or some other publishing giant. Funny how you can let yourself get comfortable in a job and forget all about the career you had dreamed up for yourself.
I used to identify myself as a writer. I don’t know who that person is anymore. I try to find her in the nooks in my desk, my stacks of workshopped short stories, and nothing. I can’t help but wonder if she’s gone. Tired of being neglected she peaced out. I know she’ll come back if I promise to brush up my skills by devoting some time, scheduling her in a hour here and there. But no, I forget and remember her during moments like this, when I sit and wonder what to do with my life. I remember, “Melizza, two z’s for pizazz. Yes, I’m a writer.” I remember her soft breath nuzzling my ear as she whispered me secrets, dreamed up worlds and created characters that I obligingly, feverishly wrote out on my wide-ruled paper. She was good company. She helped me write a novel. Three hundred or so pages of teenage dribble but dribble I was proud of.
Sigh. I wonder how she has grown up and if one day she’ll whisper to me again. I miss her.