#1:  I’m a Writer

“Let me dance for you.”

Remember that scene in A Chorus Line where the premiere dancer begs for the chance to “dance for you” because “I’m a dancer, a dancer dances?”

Well, years ago, when Bob O’Connor hired me back into the Park City School District it was because I told him, “I’m a teacher.  A teacher teaches.” 

Now, the morning after Winter Solstice 2021, the most difficult year of my teaching career – yep, harder than 2020; the most difficult year of my personal life – yep, harder than 1989 when my dad died; harder than getting a divorce; harder than Dwight dying in 2015, the sun is breaking through the pink clouds outside my window and I am getting started on the first of the intentions I set last night.

It’s hard to call myself a writer. It feels pretentious and like I’m playing dress up. 

A few weeks ago, I wore a pair of red Pistola faux leather trousers with a beautiful Gucci blouse to school. My seniors in third period, walked in and complimented, “the fit.”  Fit is the current term for outfit. 

Lizzie, who happens to be kind, warm, gracious and intelligent, said, “You look like a writer.  I don’t know what a writer looks like

Later, Lizzie asked, “Do you have a passion project?”

I paused.

“I suppose I’d be a writer instead of just dressing like one.”

An old soul, Lizzie nodded. She understood.

Today, 12-22-2021, I’m a writer.  

I mulled over ideas in my mind. I sat down with my rose gold MacBook Air next to the window that looks out over my almost an acre, past the horses in the neighbor’s corral, and over to the Uinta mountains.

I’m not dressed like a writer. Instead, I’m wearing a fuzzy gray onesie with “LOVE” embroidered in red plaid across the chest. A year ago, I wrapped up three matching onesies, including this one, with jammie bottoms for Ray and his children – the family Ray kept saying needed me. 

Turns out, they didn’t need me and they really didn’t want me. But, that’s another story, another personal essay.

Since I will turn 52 in 2022, my intention is to write one essay each week. By next Winter Solstice, I’ll have 52.

This is the first.

Now, I’ll immerse myself in mentor texts from Ann Patchett and Dinty W. Moore (that appears to be his real name).