It is my heart’s desire to be a writer when I grow up. There. I said it. And I plan to, need to, verbalize that fact a lot more. In order to get the concept, my very destiny, deep down inside my bone marrow. Toward this I’m-a-writer-at-the-cellular-level-end, I have ordered business cards. They feature a fuschia feather pen and pot of ink illustration. Fuschia happens to be my favorite color. My beauty mentor and next door neighbor, Francoise Suzette Orleans, assures me that pink clashes with my hair, but I’m okay with that. I believe aside from those pertaining to safety, some rules are made to be not just broken, but shattered with great verve.
In addition to procuring calling cards, I have recently taken on the task of composing my resume. Tell me how you think this sounds as a career objective: I, Wonder Riley, desire to dart around this world with great ebullience, leaving a trail of clever and profound words in my wake.
In addition to procuring calling cards, I have recently taken on the task of composing my resume. Tell me how you think this sounds as a career objective: I, Wonder Riley, desire to dart around this world with great ebullience, leaving a trail of clever and profound words in my wake.
Once they noticed my authorly ambitions, which was approximately thirty six months ago, Pip and Nip proceeded to present me with a word-a-day calendar every single year for Christmas. I endeavor to use interesting, but not pretentious, verbage as the average American reads at an eighth or ninth grade level. To date, my favorite word is grok. It means to understand profoundly and intuitively. Just between you and me, I often wonder if I will ever find someone who groks me, besides Granny Cat. Clearly it’s not Charlie because so far he has failed to grok the fact that I’d like him to put his kisser on mine. The fact that he’s never grokked this particular whim of mine, not even once, deeply offends my feminine sensibilities. He just does the fingertip smooch. Sigh.
Now if you have the occasion to bestow upon me a gift, perhaps for my birthday which I must tell you is April first (Please do not squinch up your face when I tell you that. It has already provided me with considerable grief during my thirteen years of existence.), a good choice would be a journal. Big or small. Ornate or humble, it matters not. Or notebooks. Legal pads. You know, stuff to jot on. I have gleaned from craft books that a writer must always be within arm’s reach of paper and pencil. Just so you know, Charlie stole 18 miniature-golf pencils for me once upon a time, so I’m pretty set with regards to writing utensils. I could use a cute little pencil sharpener though. Or perhaps a chic tote bag that would lend me an air of jaunty professionalism.
With regards to my future, there is a vision which I conjure frequently. In this apparition, it is the summer of my eighteenth or perhaps twenty first year. I am standing on the landing of a train depot, flanked on either side by an enormous, psychedelic paisley weekender satchel. My destination is Monroeville , Alabama
It does darken the mood of my heart to consider the grief my absence will afflict upon Granny Cat. I'm fairly certain Pippa and Nipper will not mourn my exodus as it seems to have been their goal all along.
One afternoon when we were having tea in the front parlour, Granny Cat picked up my hands and pressed them to her heart. I could feel the steady strong beat of it under my pinkie fingers.
"Of course they love you, Hannah Persephone Eileen," she said. "You are such a precious and unique young lady and they created you, with of course the assistance of the good Lord."
I smiled and nodded, but in the valley in the middle of my chest, I did not grok my parents' affection for me. Not one whit.
To read Part I, click here.
To read Part II, click here.
