When we come of age we all have visions of who we think we’ll be. At 20 I thought I would be a famous writer by my 30’s, the sort that swaggers into readings and signings. The kind that smells of alcohol and cigarettes – swooning, secretely beautiful, bookish girls in my wake. I suppose it’s how we see ourselves that matters most. Late in the evenings, pecking feverishly at a keyboard and lamenting “the forlorn rags of growing old,” I’m still Kerouac searching for that pearl that will be handed to me at the end of the road.
This is who I thought I would be:
Who did you think you would be?