An essay. A shift. An invitation.
At a gathering of favorite women years ago, I listened with bright eyes to them talking about writing a screenplay together. They would get together every week, sit around a big white table… and write. That table — with all of them talking about character and plot development and cracking each other up and someone typing madly at the computer saying “Wait, wait, let me get all that!” — was the table where I wanted to sit.
In a swirl of longing, I looked at one of them and whispered, “I want to come, too!” She smiled broadly and said, “Sure! Do you write?”
My mouth snapped shut. “Um. No.” Haha! We laughed. And that was that.
When I was eight, if you’d asked me what I wanted to be, I would have said an artist. I had no idea what that meant or what I would do (Paint things?…
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