I wanted to be so many things when I grew up – a lawyer, a veterinarian, a vegetarian, a massage therapist, and, of course, independently wealthy – but instead of becoming any of these things I just seemed to always write about my dreams in journal after journal chronicling my “life”. Add to this my severe case of pantophobia, which keeps me pretty much paralyzed from the eyeballs down. I can’t seem to live life very well, but I can certainly write about it.
When I found out that I was going to be a mother, well, that ratcheted up my fear of everything a few notches. And when my oldest child, Ben, was diagnosed with Neuroblastoma, Stage IV, at the age of 2 1/2, my world fell apart. Unfortunately, I had to keep my exterior from deteriorating because not only did I have a very sick little boy to care for but I had a brand new baby, Madeline, who was born six weeks after Ben’s initial diagnosis.
So, writing became my outlet. I write about my children. I write about cancer. I write about all the crazy stuff that flows through my brain at warp speed. I’m a writer. Ultimately, besides being a mother, it’s all I’ve ever truly wanted to be.
I don’t make a living through my writing (fear of rejection also falls under the large umbrella of being a pantophobe), but I do live to write. And I’ve got lots of material and a sick enough sense of humor to make it slightly entertaining.