Yes, I am a talker. I will talk your ear off if you let me. I’ll talk about smart things, stupid things, philosophical things, puzzling things, metaphysical things, conspiracy things…you name it, I’ll talk about it. I’ve lived a very…diverse life. I haven’t traveled the world, but I’ve made it to 46 of the nation’s states. I haven’t bungee jumped, or skydived, but I’ve worked almost every job imaginable. I’ve read books on every subject, and try to keep abreast with current events. I’ve ridden and trained horses, groomed cats and dogs, managed a movie theater, and sold shoes.
I’ve built barns and ponds, painted houses and just bare walls, mowed acres of Florida grass and planted gardens. I’ve chased storms and cowered in a hallway during a tornado. I’ve raised farm animals. I’ve raised reptiles. I can tell you if your cat is sick and how to treat a second degree burn. I’ve stitched up a finger. Not my own, however. I have broken all ten toes multiple times (five at one time), and my back once. I’ve broken a total of 15 bones, some more than once. I crawled over construction sites as a child, thanks to my father’s dubious parenting skills, and been to Disney World over a hundred times.
My career choices (or dreams, if you will) have been to be a marine biologist, a veterinarian, a psychologist, and for one very brief moment, a teacher.
My ULTIMATE dream, however, is to be a writer. I want to write. I feel it in my bones, I think about it constantly, and the rest of my life pales in comparison to the need I feel to write. I don’t want to write for fame or fortune (although I wouldn’t turn down the fortune part), I want to write because I enjoy making other book lovers happy. I write so that I know someone enjoyed getting lost in a story for a little while. I write because it gives me a chance to expand on my already diverse life, and learn about new things. I write because I live.
There. I talked your ear off. My internal voice is now telling me to shut up!