I am not a highly educated woman. What I do have is a standard American high school diploma, a semester and a smattering of University (Fine Arts! Theatre major of course!), and a toenail clipping’s worth of beauty school (you may go ahead and sing that song from Grease if you like). Like many writers who are also thirsty and ravenous readers, I have blithely self educated and cultivated a thick viney labyrinth of knowledge of my choosing. This includes American television theme songs from the sixties to the late eighties, independent reading of field notes from the discovery of Victor of Aveyron (the wild child of France), a modestly vast knowledge of the growling poets of the Regency era (oh, Byron, you horny boar), and so many handfuls of surface material from countless other principal studies of Random.
I have also held untold numbers of positions ranging from maid to library clerk, makeup artist/eyebrow waxer to executive administrative assistant and back around the wheel again it goes. I used to be woeful over the ticker tape parade amounts of W2’s I collected, sometimes over the course of just one year. Not anymore.
You see, I am a writer. I keep it all hidden in notes, on hard drive, on pen and composition notebook, on pure grey matter (crossing fingers that the respected sense organs do their job until I get the chance to record everything), and on haphazard websites. I have lived a thousand lives, as addict, as fool, as mother, as wife, as creative type person, as flaky buttery mess of lipgloss. I have had my education, I am continuing to have my education, for I have a thousand lives left in me (or more – that’s a roughly estimated figure), and am weaving these lives together with ones I’ve imagined to create some stories that make me feel happy. It’s actually just that simple.