Wednesday, November 10, 2010
When I was growing up, back in my Alice In Wonderland days, I wanted to be an actress. (They weren't cool 'actors' in those days, they still had that pesky 'tress' ending.) I had it all planned. I would be rich (naturally), famous (naturally) and beautiful (probably unnaturally given what I'm working with here). I wrote a memorable year 7 project that was all about a famous child actress who was accused in the tabloids of, gasp, forgetting her friends when her name went up in lights. I worked hard on that project. There was a message in a bottle in it, for God's sake.
The dream ended somewhere around about the end of high school, when I realised that actors spent a lot of time waiting tables. And that Nicole Kidman had kind of sewed up the 'redhead Australian superstar' market.
It never occurred to me that I might be a writer. Apart from that one brush with journalism work experience that saw me fleeing the industry, I never imagined myself making a living from words. I don't think that even my Dad's magical shed will ever unearth the full-length novel I wrote when I was eight. Probably because there isn't one.
I was listening to my boys discussing their career plans in the car this afternoon. They will work their police shifts together, in a car with a siren. Mr6 will drive, because he's the oldest. There was some consternation as to how Mr3 would fit in his fire guy duties, but Mr6 was confident that the writing/science aspect of his life would be easily accommodated at night.
"You write at night, don't you Mum? So I can too."
I looked at them in the backseat, skinny little arms and legs, eager expressions, big, hopeful eyes. "You can do anything you want," I replied.
Standard Mum answer, but the best answer, don't you think? It's what my Mum always told me.
What did you want to be when you grew up? Are you doing it?