When I Grow Up

Okay, I know what you're thinking.

Isn't Talli almost X (insert your figure) years old? Shouldn't she be grown up by now? But the older that I get, the more I realize I may never be grown up.

Last Wednesday, I gave a writing workshop to a lovely group of students at King's College London. After the workshop was over, one of the students asked if I'd always known I wanted to be a writer.

 Thoughts swirled though my mind as it hit me that I never knew I wanted to be a writer. I knew I liked to make up stuff, sure, but a writer? Was that even a job? How did someone get to be a writer, anyway?

As I grew older, I went through phases of wanting to be an Olympic gymnast (thank you, Nadia Comaneci and the Montréal Olympics), Little Orphan Annie (I could hang off a bridge with the best of them), the fastest runner in the world (Ben Johnson's to blame) . . . finally settling on a career in journalism. Then public relations. Then teaching. Then recruitment.

And then, when I'd done the 'adult' thing and accumulated lots of shoes, handbags, hair extensions (don't ask) and a closet full of clothes, it hit me that none of this was making me happy. So, I did the impractical, irrational thing, turning my back on it all. The child inside me -- that girl who loved to make up stuff -- has never been happier.

I still have bills to pay (boo to student loans); pay cheques to earn; boring responsibilities to fulfil. But as soon as I disappear back into my writing, I'm a kid once again.

What does the child in you want to be?

Announcements!

Are you interesting in short-story writing workshops? The wonderful Helen Hunt has more information here.My novella, Miracle at the Museum of Broken Hearts,  is free today and tomorrow on Amazon. Check it out if you have a sec. Amazon UK; Amazon.com.[image error]