Honestly, I’m bored with myself.
Doesn't anyone else get bored with everyday life. Getting up every Monday morning. Dullness of being a clock watcher and waiting for each work day to be over. This is why I write. Creating imaginary worlds is my escape from my ordinary clock watching life.
Growing up in Moncton, New Brunswick, I preferred fantasy to reality. Soap operas and romances were my escapes, whether or not I understood my longings. One time I whined to my father, “I wish I could go to country clubs.”
He’d laughed, “I invited you golfing.”
I loved stories.
Golfing with my dad couldn’t compete with movies where overwhelming odds were resolved between the time I sat and stood. Living in my fantasy world, I drifted through few boyfriends and many menial jobs. Until turning thirty.
Happy endings were supposed to happen before thirty. I decided to move to Toronto.
In Moncton, I worked for a busy courier company answering phones as an ‘all other’ operator. As in, press zero for ‘all other’ inquiries. In Toronto, I walked in circles for about a month looking for work. A month passed. So much for making my fortune. Desperate, I began looking for work in retail at the Eaton center. But managers wanted eager employees, not desperate ones. Tired, I stopped to speak with people at a booth for Herzing College. The only weren’t interested in hiring someone who only wanted a job. After a month, the only opportunity I got was to become a legal assistant. I went to school. While I dreamed of being a writer, I needed a job to pay bills.
Since, I’ve moved back twice.
And beneath everything, I dreamed of writing novels. But how many people don’t imagine being able to earn money doing what they love.
My stories are reality escapes. Not meant to be taken seriously. Fairy tales for adults.
