The first time I knew when I wanted to be a writer was in Mrs. Thornton's sixth grade class at Wilton Place Elementary school however it would be another thirty years and a trip across "the pond" before I rediscovered the passion to scribe my thoughts on to paper and acquire the confidence to share my voice, my perspective with others.
My early years in school, I always enjoyed creative writing assignments and looked forward to Mrs. Thornton's daily announcements of the days creative writing assignments. The majority of students grumbled but there were a handful of us who would sit in silent glee at the opportunity of sitting with our imagination and ourselves. This was our chance to daydream out loud! Daydreams that I dare not express vocally of purple skies and hairy monsters with three eyes that lived under my bed that survived on dust balls and red Kool-Aid or a suited pig man that lived in my closet and only came to life in the wee hours of the night.... it was those thoughts that would be grounds for committing one to an asylum yet comforted me bringing balance to a turbulent childhood and responsible for encouraging me to view the world beyond the scope of conventional rhetoric.
As I grew older the conventional thoughts of a practical future and the means to secure a comfortable living overtook my creative impetuous yearnings. Practicality had infiltrated and torpedoed my creativity for a few years but was vetoed when I auditioned and was selected to attend the Los Angeles Community College Theater Acting Academy. It was there I devoured the great playwrights opening the door once again to take pen to paper to express the inner human drama of my fellow thespian classmates as we all discovered our sexuality, love, relationships, and just who we were as human beings having this incredible intimate experience. Nothing came of my essays and observations as I unfortunately dumped what I thought were mere undisciplined scribbling into the garbage and the years passed.
The years moved forward as I dabbled with writing through diaries or on to indiscriminate pieces of paper, which are now in the universe clogging up the ozone. So much paper floating about, writing and dumping, writing and dumping, writing... and then a moment in England, I held a piece of paper in my hand, my writing, writing that I thought had no value. Perhaps it didn't carry, what I thought, any practical value at the present time but it had truth, my truth, my voice. It was then that one thing became so glaringly apparent that for years I had been dumping volumes of multitudinous expressions of my existence and it was then I knew that I could no longer discard my human voice...so I continued to write to further explore and develop my craft; the result within months of returning to the United States my first ten-minute play was performed at the McCadden Place Theater thanks to Joe Salazar.
I write now with abandon, without judgment, questioning the unquestionable, returning to my origins of that wide eyed wondrous sixth grader who found the world miraculous, its inhabitants fascinating and the unseen meritorious of materializing. I write because it is the one freedom that no one can sensor or dispel or take from me. Writing is my voice, my truth, it is me.